Regjistruar: 25/08/2003
Vendbanimi: Paris
Mesazhe: 371

Pershendetje Analiste,
Shume shume faleminderit per keto foto te mrekullueshme te Karlovy Varit.
Sa ju detyrohemi per udhetimin ? ;o)

Me pelqeu jasht mase edhe ajo fotoja me te gjitha ngjyrat e arta te vjeshtes. Edhe njehere faleminderit.

Pa dashur te abuzoj me miresesjelljen tuaj , doja te dija nese ka te tjera mrekulliara qe i perkasin Karlit ne ceki ?

Po ai lumi qe pershkron Kalovy Varin si quhet ? (Keshtu eshte kur jep gishtin te marrim krahun, Pershkrimet jane shume terheqese. Fjala ne shqip per ujrat termale eshte llixha).

gjithe te mirat

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Regjistruar: 10/01/2003
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Bashkangjitje: karlshtejn.jpg
Ky file është shkarkuar 84 herë.

Karlit i perkasin shume mrekullira. Keshtjella Karlshtejn jashte prages , ku mbaheshe thesari dhe nuk lejoheshin femrat.

ura e Karlit qe lidh qytetin e vjeter me malastranen, Universiteti i Karlit i themeluar me 1348, hedhja e themeleve te katedrales se St Vita edhe pse u deshen shekuj qe te perfundohej. Karli e beri Pragen kryeqytetin e perandorise.

ME POSHTE FOTOGRAFI NGA KARLSHTEJN
Keshtjella me mrekulline dhe monumentalitetin e saj duhet te jetesonte fuknsionin e larte te montarkise se Karlit dhe aty ruheshin dokumentet me te rendesishme shteterore, stolite e kurorezimit perandorak si dhe shume relike te tjera. eshte ndertuar maje malit.

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It takes just as much courage to express your love when it's right, as it does to walk away when it's wrong.

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Bashkangjitje: karlshejn.jpg
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2

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It takes just as much courage to express your love when it's right, as it does to walk away when it's wrong.

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Regjistruar: 25/08/2003
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Je shume fantastike.
Faleminderit

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Regjistruar: 24/08/2003
Vendbanimi: night
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I was reading about cities, and here appears Prague, your city... I was so happy when you wrote that you were discovering Prague. I wonder if you found Prague or if you found yourself in your search I'm kinda sad tonight because I feel something is escaping from my hands, like water, like time... and this message was supposely to tell you a story about Prague and it is becoming in another page of my diary; anyway, Deleuze said: how to write about something without to write about yourself... I try to keep my eyes in my Ithaka, in the cities all around the world, and I become cold and strong like a stone, undestroiable and I don't need anything else... Have you ever visited the house of Kafka? Prague is his city. Read him and discover his Prague. Here a fragment of one of my books...
I hope you enjoy it .
A kiss for you.
Naten.


Nos hemos citado en la Kavarna Arco, en la esquina de Hybernská y Dlazdená, un café literario de antaño, donde a veces kafka se encontraba con Franz Werfel, Max Brod, Rudolf Fuchs. Hoy – pero tal vez, a fin de cuentas, también sucediese antaño – amarillentas pinturas, atmósfera pesada, húmeda, manteles sucios, asientos de skai, bebedores de cerveza. “¿Qué es eso? ¿Ser jud�_o? Naturalmente. Oh, nadie me lo dirá as�_. Somos “antisionistas”, eso es todo. Pero, en fin, los oponentes jud�_os oyen que la polic�_a les dice: “Señor, ¿sabe que es usted jud�_o?” Kafka se equivocó siempre, por haber ardido sólo por la escritura cuando la literatura ya no cuenta para nada, por haber escrito en alemán en un pa�_s que se definió contra Alemania – Rilke ha sido casi olvidado también-, por ser jud�_o. Realmente , un hombre de ninguna parte...”. WL hombre que está ante m�_ habla deprisa, con fr�_a precipitación. Prosigue: “Praga es una ciudad cansada. Ese cansancio te penetra bajo la piel y ya no te abandona. No somos ya románticos. Ni siquiera el 6º nos hace soñar ya. Lo único que quisiéramos es poder pensar; reflexionar hasta el fin, a fondo. Tener un interlocutor serio, que no sea un cobarde ni un payaso, eso basta para nuestros éxtasis. Se ha vuelto casi imposible.

ROLIN, Olivier. Sept Villes. Rivages, 1998.

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No, no dejéis cerradas las puertas de la noche, del viento, del relámpago, la de lo nunca visto.

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Regjistruar: 23/06/2004
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No somos ya románticos. Ni siquiera el 6º nos hace soñar ya. Lo único que quisiéramos es poder pensar; reflexionar hasta el fin, a fondo.

what's left if not to dream ?
What's left if not....to reach out for new things?
what's left if there's no romanticism,
what if not just
spirit??

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Fear less,hope more/eat less,chew more/whine less,breathe more/talk less,say more/love more and all good things will be yours:p(swedish proverb)

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Bashkangjitje: kafka_fx.jpg
Ky file është shkarkuar 62 herë.

yes Darke, Kafka is present everywhere in Prague.

Some hints about Kafka

Many of the feelings of alienation and anxiety that drove Kafka to write, had their roots in the writer's youth. Franz Kafka, who was born to a Prague-based German-Jewish family in 1883, was weak and shy as a child. He did not inspire much respect from his father; nor did he fare much better as an adult.
Kafka's dilemma with his father could be traced back to his earliest childhood.
"He wrote a piece called 'Letter to Father' in which he described an incident from early life, when he was a baby or a small child. One night he cried and couldn't stop. His father, who was tired after a whole day's work and wanted to sleep, tried to get him to stop crying. But it didn't help. His father lost his patience, got up and took the boy and put him on the balcony and left him there. I interpret this moment as a moment when that boy somehow thought of himself as abandoned. Rejected."
Whether one moment or many contributed to feelings of resentment towards his father, his feelings of inadequacy never abandoned Kafka throughout his life. He was left isolated, unable to relate.
"He characterised himself as a man whose own nature distanced him from life in a meaningful community."
After completing secondary school Kafka continued with studies in law. Following graduation in 1907 he then joined an Italian insurance company, partly in the attempt to prove to his father he could hold a steady job. But for Kafka the work was hardly rewarding, and he left within a year. He then joined the Workers' Accident Insurance Institute which remained his sole place of employment until 1917.
But, it was away from the clerk's desk that he dreamed of becoming a writer, sacrificing many hours writing long into the night.

"It was fifteen years of gruesome effort to become a writer. The breakthrough came when he succeeded in writing a short story in one night - The Verdict. He was very dissatisfied with most of what he wrote, and he never finished any of his three novels. His protagonists in his works mostly try to get out of loneliness. Of imposed loneliness, from which there is no way out. And they are seeking their way out, but they always come back defeated."

Kafka's own relationships also suffered failure. In 1914 he became engaged for the first time to the daughter of a Jewish businessman: Felice Bauer. But he called the engagement off. In 1917, he would promise to marry her again, but by that time he became ill: he had contracted tuberculosis, which would kill him in seven years' time.
Another relationship involved the writer and the daughter of a cobbler. However, that was frowned upon most deeply by the domineering father.
Kafka's last important relationship was with journalist Milena Jesenska, said to be his intellectual match.

Outside of romantic relationships his closest friendship was with the writer Max Brod, a prominent intellectual on the Czech literary scene. It was Brod who first recognised the genius of Kafka's work. Ultimately betraying his dying friend's request to burn every page of his work. After Kafka died, Brod set about doing the opposite: publishing all of his writings.
"Before Kafka published a single line he looked upon Kafka as a genius. In all respects. Max Brod wrote about him as a great writer, mentioning his name among a row of great writers of the age. To which Kafka said very modestly 'I thank you very much, but that name should be forgotten.'"
Franz Kafka died on June 3rd 1924, never knowing what impact his work would have on the 20th century. The modern literary canon is unthinkable without it, from novels like The Trial and The Castle, to the short stories like The Metamorphosis, and In the Penal Colony.

"You see there two kinds of needles. Can you follow it? The harrow is beginning to write. It keeps on writing, deeper and deeper for the whole twelve hours. The first six hours the condemned man stays alive as before. He suffers...only...pain."

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It takes just as much courage to express your love when it's right, as it does to walk away when it's wrong.

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Regjistruar: 02/09/2005
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Bravo Ana.
Pune te shkelqyer. Sa qytet i bukur, i paster dhe shumengjyresh qenka Praga.
Tjeter me te degjuar, tjeter me te pare. Qenke me fat qe jeton atje.

Faleminderit

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arratisur syrgjynosur...

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