Quotes by Fekete István

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The threads of the homeland are eternal links with the landscape and the land from which man became and will become, and they can never be severed.

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I looked for the way, I mourned the landscape, the stream, the dusty street, the reeds, the tan-smelling forest, everything, but I couldn't find a way out, and I didn't realize that in the process - I found my Homeland.

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Loneliness - like everything else - is only tempting as long as it is not a compulsion. In order for a person to be a cheerful pedestrian, a couple of good horses or cars are absolutely necessary in the background, and in order to live in cheerful solitude, he directly needs the opportunity to get out of it whenever he wants.

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I know well: my eyes drank the light, my ears caught the song, my hands felt the caress, my feet took me on beautiful roads, and the thoughts were born in my head like the distant flickering of the sky, but all this was collected by my heart and became all that is Love.

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If the era comes in Time when man has blown up all the caves that he could not use for some purpose and cut down all the old trees long ago, then it will be too late to lament the tipped natural balance, which cannot be restored by atomic bombs or all-knowing electronic machines not possible.

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The order of infinity knows no compromise. The way of the stars and of men is written, and whoever transgresses against it will perish.

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Intellect, knowledge and soul are ours. We got it from God. Forever. But even with these we do what we want. We only need to report on them once... what we did with them.

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I love the book and always look at it like a miracle. Like a silent or sound film of past or living souls, their joy or pain locked in secret signs.

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It is already night outside: the trees are silent, the wind has died on the rich pillow of darkness, the dry leaves have rested; memory also quietly closed its old calendar, and only time wanders on the silent highway of infinity.

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Happiness cannot be negotiated, shared, and kept.

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I watched people who were either very loud or very quiet. In every word of the very loud ones, it was that everything here was theirs, and in the consuming silence of the very quiet ones, it was also that everything was theirs here, because their silence was greater than any shout.

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Nature is a cruel teacher and knows only two grades. One is life, the other is death.

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They didn't understand love, and they couldn't think that no one actually understands that sweetly thorny state of mind. He who is in love is because he is in love, and he who is not in love is because he is not in love.

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Everything was and everything will be, and you can neither cry nor laugh more than you would have cried and laughed today. (...) The point is not crying and laughing, but the person who cried and laughed, and the magnitude of that something that is behind these feelings is important.

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It would have been good to do many things differently and to think more about the decisions; to caress where a whip snapped, and to kill where a hand was open to embrace, but it was not possible, because all of this has already passed, because all of this has already happened, Time can no longer make amends for anything, least of all itself.

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There is never an open item, an unpaid bill, or a bad debt in the game of Good and Bad over man. And this great game is life itself.

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The team jumped up, and together with the three little cats, they flew towards the bright space, winter and spring, the time that no one knows what it actually is.

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If you want to command, you must first learn to obey.

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The years come with joy when they bring good, and they scatter their corrupt burden with grim cruelty, if it is entrusted to them. The years are paths that must be played through.

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There is no protection in winter, and winter does not know make-up exams. Here you have to know all the material all the time, you can't answer or whisper every day, and one wrong answer means the fall of life.

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In human society, those who lived on the kindness of those who failed often sacrifice their benefactors for small interests.

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Everyone only hits themselves when they fall, and neither the fall nor the rise belongs to anyone else in this world.

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You couldn't move in this silence, which went and came back, like a memory of love, like a caress that was long gone and never goes away.

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Fate pursues its people seemingly blindly, yet with cruel lawfulness.

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Forever! - (...) this word was uttered by billions of people in front of them believing and lying, worshiping and defiling, and this word did no harm, because it is always reborn, because it was the first meaningful word of the man who became human.

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No one can take away the galloping colts of fantasy, and no one can intervene in the overflowing of my dreams.

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Man's life is like a stream. Sometimes it gets confused and flows out in broken pieces, but it always returns to the bed.

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True happiness is silent, like the center of a dewdrop, like a secret desire that no one calls out.

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There are things that can be stopped and there are things that cannot be rushed.

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The shouts pass away, and the cursing howls fade away, but the caressing soft word of love always haunts, always whispers, always true and unfading, like the whispering of the birch trees, when there is no wind, and the mysterious sigh of the reeds, when no breeze stirs the dreamer over water.

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What is, was, and what will be, is already there, we just don't know.

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A man lives as long as he is remembered.

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I don't want glitter, money, glory. I just want a stove. Inviting lamplight, warmth for those I love. A piece of bread, silence, a few quiet words, a good book and few people. But then it should be Human!

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What isn't there, you can't think about what isn't there, it can't hurt, what isn't there is: it doesn't exist. At most, the mysterious depth of absence, emptiness sometimes makes me dizzy, but days fall into this depth, slowly filling the seemingly bottomless chasm.

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The candle burned and flared when the breath or thoughts flew past it; the breath then dissipated, the thoughts alighted wearily like a dying bird, and passed away.

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You won't be disappointed. He doesn't speak, he doesn't lie, he doesn't promise, yet he gives his all, he doesn't speak, yet he says more than anyone has ever said.

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Time can pass, beauty and goodness, love and truth do not pass away with the seasons, they do not pass away with people, but are eternal, like the incorporeal reality, and everyone gets as much as they deserve.

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Why bother about tomorrow, next year and the distant twists and turns of life? Let's be content with what we have, warm ourselves by the fire while we can, scrape out of its ashes what is sweet and enjoyable, and leave the rest to nature, because that's what it's for.

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The clouds of married life arrive mixed with lightning and thunder just as they do in nature, and they are just as natural. In fact, they are just as useful, because afterwards the atmosphere clears, the gray dust of uniformity is washed away by the rain, the sun shines again, and only then do you see how beautifully it shines, then feel how blessedly warm it is.

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The greatest jealousy is not what a woman feels for another woman, but what a wife feels for her friends, who represent freedom, individual independence, nights spent talking, autumn fires, drunkenness with and without wine, in short, everything that is only very he gets into a rare marriage, with very wise or very stupid women.

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The soldier is not there to stab, but to prevent anyone from stabbing!

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Only attractive and smiling people can give energy to their environment.

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Reality can be just as beautiful - even more beautiful! - like your fake dream.

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Ribizke - like all lonely people - says a few words to the dog, and the dog wags its tail, its eyes laugh, because it likes the soft wave of the human voice, and above all, it likes the caressing something behind the voice. And he also loves his master's eyes, in which there is so much power, command, sometimes anger, but often joy, and if he even puts his hand on his head, a soft shiver runs through his whole body, and he has to whimper with happiness.

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Every fire goes out once, but man remains to make fire again and again and see his own joy or sorrow in it.

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I also only play with words, behind which there may be reality, which also cannot be known.

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Beauty is not always what is true, and in the end, who knows what the truth is.

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Houses and people pass away, but the autumn fields remain the same, no matter how people inherit, measure, and cultivate them. It is clear from this that it is not the people who own the land, but the people who are the servants of the land.

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I love the book because its dead letters contain everything that has passed and everything that will be.

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I miss the silence that lies behind everything, I miss distance and the slow passage of time, I miss dawns and evenings, I miss Sundays and weekdays, I miss the entire meadow - because people and the world lack peace.

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I don't like people who are too strong, because I know that everyone will fall anyway and be sad. A hard look: it will be humble and submissive, a commanding voice: soft and pleading. The fist: an outstretched, trembling palm.

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Behold, it is good: to be good. Hats off to those who have fallen, to those who are worn out and tired, because you get everything back: the punch and the caress.

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Hunting is not at all the science of shooting, not killing and not food, skins and trophies, but all of these together and many, many more things that are beyond these. This is an ancient heritage that one person inherits and another does not. This is an ancient struggle to get food for the family, a desire for research, observation, a thirst for knowledge, a search for adventure, a passion for collecting, a love of forests, fields, and reed beds, even in this state of ice cream... and even if the rifle can't sound!

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A migratory bird starts from somewhere and goes somewhere. At that moment, the cobweb of ancient instincts connects these two places of life, earth, heart and stomach, and it is impossible to deviate from this, just like a train from the tracks. The whole team may perish, every freshman may perish, but the last one, the very last one, will find the same way as the only way to go from one room to another is through the door.

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No wonder there is so much trouble in the world, because only the stupidity of people is greater than their wickedness.

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When the birds of the air flew from the holy palm of the Creator, each of them must have received orders as to what to do in the earthly world. They stick to that only and prefer to return to that other world, so as not to break the eternal command, against which no created being has ever rebelled, only the crown of creation, which shines more and more dimly - man.

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There he whispers above them with an inexorable, wooden monotony, who crosses everything, whom no one crosses, who can neither be abandoned nor overtaken, who does not ask but does not answer, who does not laugh but does not cry, who is not born but does not also dies, who is infinite and eternal, and this is the master: Time.

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Without darkness, light would have no meaning.

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Every dream can become reality, and the realities of the past slowly sink into the dreamlike fog of time and distance.

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He clearly felt that people do not hug in this meadow world. At most in thought, but even in this there can be as much love, and maybe even more lasting, than those with strange movements.

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Tastes are born not of life, but of hunger, and desires are sometimes greater in the stomach than in the heart.

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Hope is not a bird with broken wings, and it is allowed and even necessary to dream about reality.

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I know you're an ass... you hurt someone even though you don't mean to... you fight back just for the sake of fighting back... You're "spirited" and when someone ghosts you, you get mortally offended. You might get a slap and you feel terribly unfair - as all slaps are unfair - but you don't think that the mother of this slap was your cheerful wit... You have to take care of yourself, because life will not be kind to you!

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No mug can be filled with more water than it can hold.

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The past belongs to everyone, the future belongs to no one. (...) Do not ask the future and do not answer the past, because the past itself is the answer to many (...) unnecessary questions.

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It was a distant, bright, autumn morning on this day, when one feels as if one could shout across to the neighboring village - if one wanted to - but then why should one shout when one has nothing to say, and in the whispering of falling leaves among the stubble trees one is not in the mood to make a noise. to no one.

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Old Christmases emerge from the flashes of my memories and illuminate the past time and people who live again and forever in the soft, floating light of small Christmas candles.

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What brings tears cannot be true, and if it is true, it is better to keep silent about it, and then maybe somehow it will go away.

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I didn't like to pass on the bad, because - I felt - then he wouldn't calm down, and in his vomiting he would get worse and worse.

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I am grateful that they let me be a child! They didn't educate, they didn't educate, they didn't guide them every step of the way and every moment. They let me be who I am, who I will be.

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It is a lie that heals rather than a truth that harms, and it remains a truth even if it is not told.

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But the names are not important. There is no name for the goodness and joy spread among people, just as there is no name for the autumn glow, the misty distance, the wave when it hits the shore, the whisper of the reed, or the caress that we never forget, even though many hard blows are long forgotten during the same time.

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Nothing moved, only Time traveled on its timeless path to infinity, leaving minutes, days, and years behind. The trees grew again, the meadow blossomed, the forest hummed. The finch came back with his silver zither, the hundred shining windows of the village laughed, the people laughed on winter evenings when everything was covered with snow, the chimneys whistled peacefully, because the forest gave what it could give.

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Time and all reality sink in the dream.

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The stars certainly interest me, and even when I'm alone, I love them, because I have personal acquaintances among them who remind me of happy evenings, sad nights, journeys and people who have already passed away, whose stars have been cut off. Yes, if I'm alone, because you can't talk to the stars in company, and the time for holding hands and looking at the sparkling wonders of the sky alone with someone has passed.

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It is good to travel the sunken, old roads, the bright roads of youth, (...) and the dreams that came from eternity, they also go back there to rest and be happy, like the human soul bathed in love.

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It would have been nice to remember certain things and forget certain things, but it was not possible, because in the lifetime puddle of time there were inevitably fairy islands and rotting reefs, which had fun at the same time and side by side, if memory opened its blind eyes.

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Elsewhere is always better, but this Elsewhere can never be reached, just like the Future, because at that moment it becomes a Present, a reality, a tangible greyness, because that Elsewhere and that Future are always somewhere else and at another time.

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So few people love the fog, and so few of us meet in it, but those of us who do meet, love not only the fog, but also each other.

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If life were all about weddings, you'd be beating your head with an ax after a week.

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Nothing can stop the engine of good intentions.

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You should always have what you don't have, because what you have, you have, and with that you have already fallen out of the playful web of desire, into the everyday dust of boredom.

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We have already learned together - said the old man, but behind this the boys also felt that they not only learned, but also knew! They not only look, but also see, not only hear, but also understand, not only touch, but also taste, and their whole unfolding individuality is full of love for reality and nature.

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Please listen to me. Then I don't even mind if you leave me here, because then I'll eat myself anyway.

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The "cultured West" (?) still thinks that we got all our culture and knowledge from them, and without them we would still be softening the "kaiserfleisch" under the saddle, although the truth is that they even shortened our language - not for themselves, but for humanity -, and we hatched the cuckoo eggs of foreign words with a good-faith stare, hatched them, and only now do we realize that the sweet children have reached the edge of the nest, if they have not fallen into the thicket of annihilation.

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A foolish man collapses when the past looks at him, a wise man acquires a new one and throws away what has fallen into the water.

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There is a day when the village goes out to the cemetery, with flowers and light, which will pass away, and with peace, love, which will not pass away. There is no more pain on this day, only a slight distant sadness floats over the landscape, like autumn's own sorrowful, hazy glow preparing for a dream.

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I like lonely journeys (...), because then my memories also travel with me, sometimes in the car, but sometimes outside over the fields, in shady forests or in the glitter of puddles, where a stork stands guard in such a military posture that only the a guard booth is missing next to him and the rifle with a bayonet on his shoulder.

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I thought, I will no longer buy a small dying pine tree for my remaining Christmases, only a branch, because the reason I buy the small trees and the small candles is not in them, but in me, in me.

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I listen to my heart. If once it stops and breaks away from my body, what I am, I will bend down once more and kiss my heart; I kiss him because he loved me and loved the whole world.

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Man can only do with himself, and he cannot conquer himself. But what he is looking for is not outside, but inside.

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When I woke up, he was already in the garden in the morning. He swept the night down into the valleys and told the clock that it would be good to behave more quietly... My heart has become silent, like the other clocks, which only walk with hard steps on the path of time when one is alone.

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All it takes is a movement, some long-forgotten scent, an object, a crack of a branch, the whistling of the wind, and the memory rears its head, looks at us, and is as refreshingly, cheerfully or sadly real as all the realities of the present.

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Needless talk and aimless politeness are really unnecessary.

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I love the fog, because beyond it there is buzzing prosperity, a warm stove, arms open for hugs and fairy tales that might come true. I like fog because it covers the past, the future, and the present is so vague that it might not even be true.

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People and facts pass away, but the legend is eternal!

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You don't even have to take a good horse to the fair, because its reputation will spread anyway, and people will come to the house to pick it up.

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The bird has no face to express its pain, only its eyes show some deepening before it breaks when it must perish.

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The road is endless. However, there are no endless paths either down or up.

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You said it once, the second time the dog doesn't even care about it. The whip is only worth something as long as it is rarely taken out.

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Memory hardly cares about time, which never helps, and perhaps it does not even know that it is Time, and in one's mind it connects pleasant and unpleasant, beautiful and ugly, good and unpleasant events.

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I love the fog, because there is silence in it, like in a foreign country, whose inhabitants are loneliness and whose king is sleep.

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In general, life is cheap, but then it is... And indeed, adversity that lasts for weeks, sometimes months, takes a toll on even the strongest and most resilient person.

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Of all the fearful, the most fearful is man.

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There is no war won or lost, there is only "War"! Destructive, murderous, inhuman! Wars didn't solve any problems, but they always planted the seeds for the next one. Wars are started by a few people, but they don't fight and they don't die. Ordinary people kill each other, they fall into the limestone pit of foreign land, and their homes are destroyed. They are the tools and they are the victims.

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Around Christmas - the lonely rooms are even lonelier (...), but the memories are more alive and kinder, like the quiet, soft embrace of past times and past friends.

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Pay close attention, son... I'm not setting limits, because you may already have so much sense that you won't hit the wall with your head. So if you hit your head, it's your business, if you get into trouble, you have to get out yourself, because there might not be anyone by your side. Take on as much as you can handle, and it's no use whining to me if you cut your hand or upset your stomach. It's all your private business. I believe that this is the only way you will learn to walk on your own feet and find out exactly what is possible and what is not allowed.

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This earth is too small and too big for the connecting threads to be broken, and if they were to be broken, then the human nature dangles in nothingness and becomes nothing itself.

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The white bird of goodness has always nested in my soul, and those who are immortal in their love and happiness are waiting - tomorrow or in twenty years.

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I approached my old father like a shoot to an old tree. Maybe I thought that in years to come someone would come close to me like that, and then to him, but we will never, ever run out... - maybe that he would give me the warmth of my grandfather's arms, with which he held me in his arms, so that I could pass it on to the one who comes after me.

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The stubble of the mown meadows shone with spider webs that could never be seen in the daytime, and the red plate of the sun seemed to pause to think whether it would break away from the edge of the earth.