I am close to completing my article on the novel Q. Not only does it breathe the spirit of Engels, Kaustky and Bloch on the revolutionary decades of the Reformation (as well as expressing Gramsci’s longing that the Reformation had happened in Italy too), but the authors obviously enjoyed writing the thing. So a few select morsels:
The road through memories is hazardous and bumpy: they’re always ready to betray you (105).
April just makes me scratch my scars: the geographical map of lost battles (114).
A bag full of trinkets rolling out by chance and finally amazing you, as though you weren’t the one who picked them up and turned them into precious objects (251).
But during these past ten years I’ve known so many of them, on every street corner, in every brothel, in the remotest churches. My peregrinations have been so studded with those encounters that I could write a treatise about them. Some of them were merely charlatans and actors, others believed in their own sincere terror, but only a very few had the stuff of prophets, the brilliance, the ardour, the courage to repaint John’s great fresco in the souls of men. They were capable of choosing the right words, seizing situations, taking the gravity of the moment and filling it with the imminent event, bringing it into the present moment (138).
A beggar among beggars, with a load of unbearable letters, memories and suspicions (119).
I haven’t done too badly as an exterminating angel (149).
A silent fart in the divine plan (172).
They arrived in a black rage, they went home pissed as farts (208).
You just feel that things can’t go on like this, that the walls, inside and out, are getting too close for you, and that your mind needs some fresh air, your body needs to feel the miles passing beneath you (235).