“I guard my memories of my lost one jealously, keep them securely under wraps, like a folio of delicate watercolours that must be protected from the harsh light of day.”
“These things that were between us, these and a myriad others, a myriad myriad, these remain of her, but what will become of them when I am gone, I who am their repository and sole preserver?”
“¿Recordáis cómo era abril cuando éramos jóvenes, esa sensación de líquida impetuosidad y el viento extrayendo cucharadas azules del aire y los pájaros fuera de sí en los árboles que ya habían echado brotes?”
“Yes, another April; in a way, in this story, it is always April.”
“Sleep is uncanny, I have always found it so, a nightly dress-rehearsal for being dead.”
“Imágenes del pasado remoto se agolpan en mi cabeza, y la mitad de las veces soy incapaz de distinguir si son recuerdos o invenciones. Tampoco es que haya mucha diferencia, si es que hay alguna. Hay quien afirma que, sin darnos cuenta, nos lo vamos inventando todo, adornándolo y embelleciéndolo, y me inclino a creerlo, pues Madame Memoria es una gran y sutil fingidora. Los pecios que elijo salvar del naufragio general —¿y qué es la vida, sino un naufragio gradual?— a veces asumen un aspecto de inevitabilidad cuando los exhibo en sus vitrinas, pero son azarosos; quizá representativos, quizá de manera convincente, pero sin embargo azarosos.”
“Remember what April was like when we were young, that sense of liquid rushing and the wind taking blue scoops out of the air and the birds beside themselves in the budding trees?”
“Yet even without saying, each knew what the other was thinking, and, more acutely, what the other was feeling -- this is a further effect of our shared sorrow, this empathy, this mournful telepathy.”
“Whom now would I love, and who would love me?”
“of her blood. Oh, I do not say these are”
“What did I brood on, sitting there in the classic pose with my elbows on my knees and my chin on my hands? We do not need to go to the Greeks, our tragic predicament is written out on rolls of lavatory paper.”
“… убеждението, което ние всички храним на тази възраст, че семействата на нашите приятели са много симпатични, по-приятни и интересни – с една дума, по-желани, – отколкото нашите собствени?”
“How is your father?” she asks disinterestedly.
“A contrivance,” I mutter. “A plot device.”
“IF her life had taught her anything, it was that you never really knew what people had going on beneath the surface. People were shit. The only difference between them and animals was people felt the need to hide it.”
“I think you have a case of either 'testitis' or 'I Didn't Do My Homework Syndrome'. It's common in the Spring.”
“Colonel. Can she read and write? Peter. Ay, that she can, sir. Colonel. Then she is a dangerous woman.”
“Every inner touch, every one of its fingerprints on my brain, burned like acid. It shredded the walls of my soul like tissue paper, it clawed its way into my very center, I couldn’t tell anymore where it began and I ended. It poured into me like a river into the sea, mixing, melding, until we were one. One. For better or worse. Until death do us part.”
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