Quotes by Határ Győző

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Let's look at the twists and turns of fate, the upheavals, the vicissitudes of our lives in the orthogonal projection of death. Their insignificance is immediately apparent. They become relatable - bearable. (...) Near death, we realize that what is "unbearable" has other, very different categories.

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The "perfect" nature of God makes the fact of creation incomprehensible; the perfect being does not need "supplementation", has no "needs", "whims", does not act under "compulsion".

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We are figures on the web of time, and we exist only woven into it.

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Since the world is uncreated and Heaven is empty, those who claim to be "believers" are actually those who believe in nothing, because they believe in nothing. To believe - to secretly warm a timid assumption like a treasured clenodium thickening into a conviction: you can only believe outside of religion.

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Pain and suffering are not proof that the world is evil. It is true that the antelope can think trustingly while the lion is biting its throat: "the world is evil because it is full of lions", but at the same time, the lion, while licking warm antelope blood, can think: "the world is good! It is full of antelopes".

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After all, those who say that there is no other way of living, only remaining in the memory of the living, are right, there is no other resurrection, only the resurrection in the memory of the living.

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Freedom is the most special kind of "deficiency disease". Such a malaise that can be felt only when and in whom it is lacking - but then very much, but as soon as it "is there", in possession of the "freedom" that comes with a thousand troubles, the person or the nation is unable to enjoy the happiness of its recovery; the freedom.

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The only conscious reality of time is the present. Past and future: our fiction. The past is an abstraction, the future is doubly so.

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As a matter of fact, the whole life is a traumatic experience, and by the time we reach the end of the bread-and-butter struggle, there is no time left to recover from this traumatic experience.

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In our happiness is our pursuit, and in our pursuit is our happiness. We strive to be happy; and we are happy to strive for it.

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What priests and politicians have in common is that they lie professionally (in press parlance: they "deceive" professionally).

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The most primitive and unpleasant form of skeptic is the one who never doubts himself.

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Existence and life: two separate dimensions, between which a change of scale is impossible. Human life, in its limitations, sparking up and sparking off - this sharply separates life from existence. We dreamwalkers can only live, not exist.

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Politics is the art of master tricks, which can be used to lead the primitive voter savages living at the intellectual level of an army of six-year-old children by the nose.

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Life is life: you lick a dwindling lollipop as long as you can, if nothing hurts, it's eureka.

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The night of life has darkened over us, don't look at me, blacken your image, the night of the coffin of life is tearing us apart, take care of yourself - I will dismiss you.

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I was a fan of roads not taken; it was for them that I consistently left the beaten path.

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I am a balanced soul and an even temper; according to my feeling, joy is the natural vehicle of life, and when I was excited, I let the joy of life flow freely.

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The visions of hopelessness must be faced by those who, with their birth, dare to be human, instead of remaining in the happier realm of the fauna, where fawns, deers, badgers and bison do not have a "career", do not plan the "career" of their children, do not search for the "secret of God".

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Life passed him by and he didn't notice him, life passed him by and he didn't notice it.

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Yesterday's sacred truths will become tomorrow's manifest oxen.

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A man in love is a living hive. The bees are buzzing and buzzing in every cell, and the honey is buzzing and buzzing - honey! honey! -, they refer to the same honey, which is collected from a single magical cup. They circle around it in fanciful swarms, climbing from petal to petal, indulging in it, so that we fill our hive cells with the same sweetening obsession again, and from the tip of our toes to the crown of our head, it buzzes and tingles on the same spleen, honey spun drop by drop for fear and chase.

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I have always been in awe of women's sense of reality and the ancient routine with which they overcome the historical paranoia of men.

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You can abuse words, deceive, deceive, swear falsely - but the "arete" of words is telling the truth.

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We know very well that history is written by the winners of each time, so history as a whole is the totality of historical rewritings and reevaluations of successive winners, so what we respect as "history" has only a very narrow overlap with the physical history of facts/events.

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Human joy (...) can only be felt if it is published, broadcast, shared with someone.