“لقد قرأت بعض الكتب فقط للتقليل من جهلي !”
“حين يصبح الإيمان حقوداً ، بورك الذين يشككون !”
“أنا الذي أشكك بكل شيء ، كيف لا أشكك كذلك بشكوكي ؟”
“ما جدوى السفر حول العالم لرؤية ما يكمن أصلا في قرارة النفس ؟”
“غيري يكتب كما يتكلم ، و أنا أكتب كما ألتزم الصمت”
“وفي صلواتي صرت أرغب أن ابتهل قائلاً
يارب لاتنأى عني كثيراً ولا تقترب مني كثيراً كذلك !
دعني أتأمل النجوم على أهداب ثوبك ولكن لا تكشف لي عن وجهك !
اسمح لي أن أسمع خرير الأنهار التي تجعلها تجري والريح التي تنفخ في الأشجار وضحكات الأطفال الذين قد خلقتهم ولكن إلهي إلهي لا تسمح لي أن أسمع صوتك !”
“فطبيعتى المتشككة التى أنشأنى عليها والدى تقينى من إستفاضات الإيمان العارمة - أو ربما يجدر بي القول إنها تحظر على أى ثبات , سواء فى الحفاظ على التعقل أو فى السعى وراء الأوهام”
“Cette recommandation (Aime ton prochain comme toi-même) paraît, à première vue, irréprochable mais à voir ce que la plupart des gens font de leur vie, à voir ce qu'ils font de leur intelligence, je n'ai pas envie qu'ils m'aiment comme eux-mêmes.”
“كم اشتهي أن أتذوق أيضا و أيضا ، تلك المتعة المرتسمة .لا لحرصي على إبقائها طاهرة للأبد . غير أني لم أمل تلك الجيرة المبهمة ، و ذلك التواطؤ المتعاظم ، و تلك الرغبة الحبلى بالمحن العذبة ، أي باختصار تلك الدرب التي نسلكها معا ، مبتهجين سرا ، و زاعمين في كل مرة أن العناية الإلهية وحدها التي تدفع أحدنا نحو الأخر.
تلك الرغبة تسحرني و لست على يقين من رغبتي بالعبور الى الجهة الأخرى من التلال .
أعرف أنها لعبة لا تخلو من الخطورة . ففي أية لحظة قد تحرقنا النيران ، و لكن كم كانت نهاية العالم تلوح بعيدة نائية في تلك الليلة.”
“La route quelquefois s'agrémente de fables, comme le sommeil s'agrémente de songes, il faut savoir ouvrir les yeux à l'arrivée.”
“هذه المرأة لم تشبع في قرارة نفسي شهوة الجسد التي تعتري الرحالة بل لطَّفت محنتي الأولى. فقد ولدت غريباً، وعشت غريباً، وسوف أموت وقد تعاظمت غربتي. وغروري يمنعني من ذكر العداء، والإهانات، والضغينة، والمعاناة. ولكن النظرات والحركات لا تخفي عليَّ. فعناق بعض النساء يلوح كالمنفى، وعناق بعضهن الآخر يذكر بالأرض الأم”
“What's a year in comparison with eternity? what's a day? an hour? a second? Such measures have meaning only for a heart that's still beating.”
“I look at the world and my own life as if I were a stranger. I wish for nothing, except perhaps that time would stop.”
“...people always manage to 'prove' what they want to believe; they'd be just as well off if they tried to prove the opposite.”
“What strange times we live in, when good must disguise itself in the tawdry rags of evil!”
“Some women's arms are places of exile; others are a native land.”
“Perhaps writing only arouses the passions in order to allay them, as beaters flush out the game in order to expose it to the hunter's arrows.”
“So I've become an exile without ever leaving my country.”
“Some women's arms are placed of exile; others are a native land.”
“...it's better to wake up amid the pangs of desire than amid those of remorse.”
“You’re right,” Jacks said. “You’re not part of my world. You’re not one of those girls. And maybe that’s why.”
“Why what?”
“Why I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Maddy rolled her eyes. “Guys like you don’t say that to girls like me.”
“I’ve never said that to anyone, actually,” Jacks corrected. “In fact, I’ve never done anything like this before.” He let out a little laugh. “How am I doing?”
He swallowed hard, trying to push down his nervousness. He was astonished to realize he was nervous. Somehow being around Maddy just put him in a different space. Jacks felt so present.
Maddy stared at him, letting the anger and frustration surge through her.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked finally.
He paused, considering.
“I’m being honest. I know you may not believe me. But I haven’t been able to not think about you. When we were in the back at the restaurant, and . . .” Jacks’s voice trailed off, his face coloring. “I still feel terrible about what I did. I lied to you and, even though I had good reasons for it, it was wrong of me.”
Maddy studied him. Was he telling the truth?
Jacks smiled. “I mean this in the best possible way: I’m not going to leave you alone until you let me make it up to you. I’m serious. I’ll be here every night. You might as well get me some pajamas and a toothbrush.”
Despite her best efforts not to, Maddy laughed. She looked at Jacks and could see the faintest twinkle of light in his eyes.
“So what you’re saying is that I should just give in and let you make it up to me. Otherwise you’ll be tormenting me like this for the rest of my life?”
“Pretty much. Yeah.”
“Well.” She sighed. “What do you have in mind?”
“Come fly with me.”
“He approached the great glass barrier dividing the room, and the speaker at the end of the table. "Cyclops?" he whispered, stepping closer, clearing his tight throat, "Cyclops, it's me, Gordon."
The glow in the pearly lens was subdued. But the row of little lights still flashed--a complex pattern that repeated over and over like an urgent message from a distant ship in some lost code--ever, hypnotically, the same.
Gordon felt a frantic dread rise within him, as when, during his boyhood, he had encountered his grandfather lying perfectly still on the porch swing, and feared to find that the beloved old man had died.
The pattern of lights repeated, over and over.
Gordon wondered. How many people would recall, after the hell of the last seventeen years, that the parity displays of a great supercomputer never repeated themselves? Gordon remembered a cyberneticist friend telling him the patterns of light were like snowflakes, none ever the same as any other.
"Cyclops," he said evenly, "Answer me! I demand you answer--in the name of decency! In the name of the United St--"
He stopped. He couldn't bring himself to meet this lie with another. Here, the only living mind he would fool would be himself.
The room was warmer than it had seemed during his interview. He looked for, and found, the little vents through which cool air could be directed at a visitor seated in the guest chair, giving an impression of great cold just beyond the glass wall.
"Dry ice," he muttered, "to fool the citizens of Oz.”
“Don't sweat the small stuff...and it's all small stuff.”
“She’d never had feelings about any man that were important enough to be real romantic love. Affection, lust, yes those things. Instants in time with someone that had touched her, yes that too. But she found no one for romance that she could look up to, that was real , an individual that wasn’t made up of bits and pieces of clichés, buffeted about on the tide of their wants and the opinions of others, no goal, no point of view that they understood themselves why they held it.
She had researched him when she was assigned to protect him, she told him.
She had not understood in the
beginning.
“You were a man that had it all! Worthy and courageous military action; you grew up, came of age in war. A successful career, status in letters, a full professorship at a prestigious university if you wanted it. Accrued wealth and income enough to live however you wanted. Beautiful women in your life … you do not show the full measure of your years in either looks or fitness.
“You were a full fledged member of the oligarchy, though at a modest level. Yet you threw it all away! You started your novel, became a thorn in the side of the establishment,” she told him. “I didn’t understand until I read the fragment of manuscript that you had Jean Augereau print out for you. You were on a crusade … totally focused! I saw that you were something special then,” she told him, “That’s when you began to become very special to me!”
“...'To the making of many books there is no end, and much devotion to them is wearisome to the flesh.'
– Ecclesiastes 12:12”
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