“I shall tell you where we are. We're in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind. A dim, subconscious underworld. A radiant abyss where men meet themselves. Hell, Netley. We're in Hell.”
“The one place Gods inarguably exist is in our minds where they are real beyond refute, in all their grandeur and monstrosity.”
“Perhaps this is the purpose of all art, all writing, on the murders, fiction and non-fiction:
Simply to participate.”
“I am not man so much as syndrome; as a voice that bellows in the human heart.
I am rain.
I cannot be contained”
“Tis Dante I prefer. In his Inferno he suggests the one true path from Hell lies at its very heart...
...and that in order to escape, we must instead go further IN.”
“Invoke not reason. In the end it is too small a deity.”
“Murder, other than in the most strict forensic sense, is never soluble. That dark human clot can never melt into a lucid, clear suspension. Our detective fiction tells us otherwise: everything is just meat and cold ballistics. Provide a murderer, a motive and a means, and you have solved the crime. Using this method, the solution to the Second World War is as follows: Hitler. The German economy. Tanks. Thus, for convenience, we reduce the complex events.”
“Los símbolos tiene poder, Netley... Poder suficiente como para retorcerle el estómago incluso a alguien como tú... O como para relegar a la mitad de este planeta a la esclavitud.”
“There never was a Jack the Ripper. Mary Kelly was just an unusually determined suicide. Why don't we leave it there.”
“In 1939, Simon & Schuster published ADDRESS UNKNOWN as a book and sold fifty thousand copies, a huge number in those years. Hamish Hamilton followed suit in England with a British edition, and foreign translations were begun. But 1939 was also the year of Blitzkrieg; within months most of Europe was under the domination of Adolph Hitler, the Dutch translation disappeared, and the only other European appearance of ADDRESS UNKNOWN was on the Reichskommisars list of banned books. So the story remained unknown on the continent for the next sixty years, despite its great impact and success in the U.S. and England. Author”
“پاییز امسال یک کلاغ سپید پیدایش شد. همیشه با کمی فاصله پشت سر بقیه پرواز میکند و روی هر درختی بنشیند همجنسهایش از آن درخت پرهیز میکنند. درک نمیکنم که چرا بقیهٔ کلاغها دوستش ندارند. به چشم من پرندهای بهخصوص زیباست، ولی برای همجنسهایش انزجارانگیز است. میبینم که تنها روی کاج خودش چمباتمه میزند و به دشت خیره میشود؛ بطالتی غمگین که نمیباید وجود میداشت، کلاغی سپید. آنقدر آنجا مینشیند تا دستهٔ بزرگ کلاغها پرواز میکنند، آنوقت من کمی غذا برایش میبرم. آنقدر رام است که میتوانم نزدیکش شوم. گاهی وقتها تا میبیند دارم میآیم روی زمین جست و خیز میکند. از کجا بداند چرا طرد شده است. زندگی دیگری را نمیشناسد و همیشه طردشده باقی خواهد ماند. چنان تنهاست که از آدمیزاد کمتر میترسد تا از برادران سیاهش. شاید آنقدر از او منزجرند که حتی راضی نیستند با وسوسه منقارشان سوراخ سوراخش کنند. هر روز در انتظار کلاغ سپید مینشینم و او را به سوی خود میخوانم و او با دقت از میان چشمهای سرخرنگش براندازم میکند. برایش کار چندانی از دستم برنمیآید. آشغالهای من شاید زندگیای را طولانی میکنند که نباید طولانی شود. ولی من میخواهم کلاغ سپید زنده بماند. گاهی در عالم رؤیا میبینم که یک کلاغ سپید دیگر در جنگل هست و آن دو یکدیگر را پیدا خواهند کرد. رؤیایم را باور ندارم، فقط آرزو میکنم چنین باشد.”
“a dangerous thing for any state to maintain its power by plugging up the vent of complaints, stifling the voices of the people. When complaining becomes a crime, hope becomes despair. He finished”
“What are you doing?" I whisper, not at all surprised when he doesn't answer my question. He keeps up drawing patterns for a few minutes, nearly lulling me to sleep, before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss between my shoulder blades. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me onto my side toward him, my back flat against his warm chest."I was connecting the dots," he says quietly. "Your freckles are like stars. They tell a story, depending on how you connect them."I smile to myself as he takes my hand, linking our fingers together. "What did they tell you?""They told me you're beautiful," he says. "And I'm a lucky son of a bitch to have you all to myself.”
“Now why [...] should I worry about what people say when my own father call me a whore?”
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