“Hear all proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are invited” – Clockwork Orange
This page will be dedicated to words that resonate even after I end the day. Even After I begin another.
Frantumaglia by Elena Ferrante
Pg14: I’ve already done enough for this long story: I wrote it.
pg15: I believe that books, once they are written, have no need of their authors.
pg16: How and when words escape from books and the books end up seeming like empty graves is something to think about.
pg17 (This was written in another book by Elsa Morante but was quoted by Elena Ferrante): And for whom “Mother” means two things: old and holy. The proper color for a mother’s clothes is black, or, at most, gray or brown. The clothes are shapeless, since no one, starting with the mother’s dressmaker, must think that a mother has a woman’s body. Her age is a mystery with no importance, because her only age is old age. That shapeless old age has holy eyes that weep not for herself but for her children; it has holy lips, that recite prayers not for herself but for her children. And woe to those who utter in vain, in front of those children, the holy name of their mother! woe! It’s a mortal offense.
Pg22: I preserve a distant sensation of skin against skin, as she held tight to my hand, out of anxiety that I would slip away and run along the uneven dangerous street: I felt her fear and was afraid.
pg77: The loss of love is a failure, it causes an absence of sense.
pg128: Am I hurting you? I said no and suffered.
pg122: But it’s rare that one saves oneself from a rickety landing at the top of a building by throwing oneself down the stairwell.
Pg 219: I don’t know what the Neopolitan mother is like. I know what some mother I’ve known are like, who were born and grew up in that city. They are cheerful and foul-mouthed women, silent victims, desperately in love with males and male children, ready to defend and serve them even though the men crush and torture them; prepared to claim that men have to be men; and incapable of admitting, even to themselves, that, with that, they drive them to be even more brutish. To be female children of these mothers wasn’t and isn’t easy.
Kafka on the Shore by Murakami
pg181: Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.
pg 212: Kafka, in everybody’s life there’s a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can’t go forward any more. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That’s how we survive.
pg 261: No, I don’t feel sad. He’s my father after all. But what I really regret is that he didn’t die sooner. I know that’s a terrible thing to say..
pg 266: In our home everything was twisted. And what’s normal ends up looking weird too.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
pg 115: but then is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
pg 151: His eyes did not do anything that shock normally describes. No snapping, slapping, no jolt. Those things happen when you wake from a bad dream, not when you wake into one.
Pg 182: the struggler: if they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.
Pg 189: I’ve seen so many young men over the years who think they’re running at other young men. They’re not. They’re running at me.
pg 236: He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again, and would go to his grave without them.
pg 338: He was the second snowman to be melting away before her eyes, only this was different. It was a paradox. The colder he became, the more he melted.
pg 405: ‘There were stars,’ he said. ‘They burnt my eyes.’
pg 424: Silence was not quiet of calm, and it was not peace.
pg 534: He killed himself for wanting to live.
pg 535: There must be a place in Heaven for those who have been where I have been.
The Gaze by Elif Shafak
Pg 11: Her kind of womanhood is like the flame of a match.. its extinguishes as soon as she gets out of bed
Pg 46: Indeed she wouldn’t have been so ugly if she hadn’t been seen.
Pg 54: Freezing was the only death that asked its victim’s consent. Freezing was the only death that made one smile as if it killed.
pg 82: I’d bend over and pick up my pieces one by one, but what I’ve lost is always more than I’ve gathered. No matter how careful I am, I always leave something behind. Something is always left half-done, unfinished, incomplete.
Love Her Wild by Atticus
Pg 140: I feel like girls who drink Whiskey tell good stories
Pg 7: Love is diving head first into someone else’s confusing and finding that is all makes sense.
Pg 23: Pat a girl in moonlight and tell only truths and every man becomes a poet.
Pg 97: She was afraid of heights but she was much more afraid of never flying
“I say: everything is God. Whereas you say: everything is God’s. That little apostrophe makes a huge difference.” – Deepak Chopra
- This visible source of all the exists is not an empty void but the womb of creation itself.
- It turns the chaos of quantum soup into stars, galaxies, rainforests, human beings, and our own thoughts, emotions, memories, and desires.
- Sir Isaac Newton believed that the universe was literally God’s blank mind, and all of the stars and galaxies were his thoughts.
- The past is all around us.
- اما اليوم , فأنا مقتنعة بأن لا أحد يفقد أحدآ , لانه لا أحد يفقد أحدآ , لانه لا أحد يمتلك أحدآ . هذه هى التجربة الحقيقة للحرية
- I think God comes in many pieces and colors. I can build a peaceful God, all-loving. Or I can build an angry God-punishing.
- My last hope for all of us humans, is to understand as easily as we love.
- It’s meaningless to have intelligence without knowledge
- I think that the men we choose say, like many other important choices, what sort of woman we are, what woman we are becoming.
- “I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
― Sylvia Plath,
- “Words: with them you can do and undo as you please.”
― Elena Ferrante,
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