欧宝娱乐

The darkness of winter days multiplies the lacunae of memory, confined to the circle of light from the desk lamp; you travel from one memory to the next as if from village to village in the snow, sinking, losing the road, barely hearing the guiding thread 鈥� the hum of the power lines.

But there was no real scale either 鈥� he was not great, but small, a blind old man who knew how to do only one thing 鈥� elicit fear, not fright which we often confuse with fear, especially as children, but fear 鈥� the oppressive living essence that forces the psyche into an unnatural state and forces a person to stifle himself; fear, the optical lenses of fear increased Grandfather II鈥檚 figure, gave it a demonic, creepy glow. The real horror was in the useless keys, the saucers from beat-up tea sets, in worn coins 鈥� in the anonymity of existence, in the impossibility of learning anything morally from these remains, which could have been caught in an archaeologist鈥檚 sieve, about a person who seemed to blend into the general background of an era, lost amid the trifles, who had taken on the quotidian as a scheme, or even more accurately, had always lived by it; a person about whom you sensed great evil but whom you could never call great or even having scale in that evil.

I sensed that oblivion does not come in gradualness, extension, or postponement, but that it is an integral part of time itself, whose unreasoning force makes it happen here and now; blind Cronus is continually devouring his children, and every new moment does not try to add to the last one but to destroy it. Only memory can resist forgetting; of course, not always.

and then you understand that the deathly communion was not accidental. through it, as through newly granted vision, you see your body, your memory, your fate as predestination: the inheritance of blood, the inheritance of memories, the inheritance of other lives鈥攅verything wants to speak, seeks to complete itself, to happen to the end, to be recognized and mourned.