En niets was nog heilig …
door Prachtige Pjotr
He burned to appease the fierce longing of his heart before which everything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge and falsehood. Beside the savage desire within him to realize the enormities which he brooded on nothing was sacred. He bore cynically with the shameful details of his secret riots in which he exulted to defile with patience whatever image had attracted his eyes. By day and by night he moved among distorted images of the outer world. A figure that had seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him by night through the winding darkness and sleep, her face transfigured by a lecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy. Only the morning pained him with its dim memory of dark orgiastic riot, its keen and humiliating sense of transgression.
James Joyce, The portrait of the artist as a young man
En hoe kan ik, staande op lemen voeten, mezelf zo plaatsen in het leven dat zelfs de grootste maalstroom me niet kan meesleuren? Misschien heb ik chaos, woede, oorlog nodig om iets wezenlijks te ervaren. Het leven is storm en ik wil de kans grijpen mee te stormen waar het moet. Zelfs Daedelos, de architect van zijn eigen gevangenis, is erin geslaagd zijn labyrint te verschalken. Want wat is de lakmoesproef van de vrijheid meer dan het overwinnen van je eigen schaamte?