Greek Lessons

If snow is the silence that falls from the sky, perhaps rain is an endless sentence.

You said, This thing we call life mustn’t ever become something endured.

Do you ever wonder at the strangeness of it? That our bodies have eyelids and lips, that they can at times be made to close from the outside, and at other times to lock fast from within.

You said, Beauty is only that which is intense, has a vibrant energy. You said, This thing we call life mustn't ever become something endured.

To her, there was no touch as instantaneous and intuitive as the gaze. It was close to being the only way of touching without touch. Language, by comparison, is an infinitely more physical way to touch. It moves lungs and throat and tongue and lips, it vibrates the air as it wings its way to the listener. The tongue grows dry, saliva spatters, the lips crack. When she found that physical process too much to bear, she became paradoxically more verbose.

Me aterra el silencio del espacio por el que se expande mi voz. Me aterra no poder enmendar las palabras una vez pronunciadas, que esas palabras sepan mucho más de lo que yo sé.

No lo puedo entender. Tú eres el que ha muerto, pero siento que todo me abandona. Tú eres el que ha muerto, pero son mis recuerdos los que sangran, se manchan, se oxidan y resquebrajan.

Si tomamos como cierta la premisa que dice que, cuando perdemos algo, ganamos otra cosa, ¿Qué es lo que he ganado yo al perderte a ti?

Falling in love is like being haunted

The world is an illusion, and living is dreaming, it read: How is that dream so vivid? How does blood flow and hot tears gush forth?

The sadness of the human body. The human body, with its many indented, tender, vulnerable parts. I realized something with armpits. The chest.The groin. A body born to embrace someone, to desire to embrace someone. I should have embraced you as hard as I could, at least once before that period of our lives passed us by. It wouldn't have hurt or harmed me to do so. I would have withstood it, survived it.

Pronto llegará el día en que no podré distinguir mi reflejo en el espejo de todo lo demás. Todos los rostros que recuerdo se quedarán congelados en mi memoria.

If only she’d made a map of the route her tears used to take. If only she’d used a needle to engrave pinpricks, or even just traces of blood, over the route where the words used to flow. But, she mutters, from a place deeper than tongue and throat, that was too terrible a route.

The world is an illusion, and living is dreaming,” I muttered. Yet blood runs and tears gush forth.

It’s a common belief that blind or partially sighted people will pick up on sounds first and foremost, but that isn’t the case with me. The first thing I perceive is time. I sense it as a slow, cruel current of enormous mass passing constantly through my body to gradually overcome me.

A person lies prone in the snow. Snow in their throat. Earth in their eyes. Seeing nothing. A person stands next to them. Hearing nothing.

In the part that argues everything has within it that which harms it, he uses the example of how the inflammation of the eye ruins the eye and blinds it, and how rust ruins iron and completely shatters it. Why, then, isn't the human soul, which is analogous to such things, ruined by its foolish, bad attributes?

Who would be best able to think about life? Someone who faces death at every turn, someone who, for that reason, is inevitably thinking of death, always, necessarily, urgently

Me aterra no poder enmendar las palabras una vez pronunciadas, que esas palabras sepan mucho más de lo que yo sé.

language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice. A language that does not wait to be combined with any other prior to use, a supremely self-sufficient language. A language that can part the lips only after irrevocably determining causality and manner.

She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language. Language worn ragged over thousands of years, from wear and tear by countless tongues and pens. Language worn ragged over the course of her life, by her own tongue and pen. Each time she tried to begin a sentence, she could feel her aged heart. Her patched and repatched, dried-up, expressionless heart. The more keenly she felt it, the more fiercely she clasped the words. Until all at once, her grip slackened. The dulled fragments dropped to her feet. The saw-toothed cogs stopped turning. A part of her, the place within her that had been worn down from hard endurance, fell away like flesh, like soft tofu dented by a spoon.

When I walk into complete darkness, is it all right if I remember you without this unrelenting ache?

¿Por qué me acerqué a ti de esa manera tan estúpida? Puede que mi amor no fuera estúpido, pero como yo sí lo era, se contaminó de mi estupidez. O quizá yo no era tan estúpido, pero la estupidez inherente al amor despertó la estupidez que había en mí y terminó por arruinarlo todo.

There was not yet a knife between me and the world, so at this time this was enough.

There is evil in this world, and it causes the suffering of innocent people. If God is good but unable to redress this, he is impotent. If God is not good and merely omnipotent, and does not redress these things, he is evil. If God is neither good nor omnipotent, he cannot be called God. Therefore the real existence of a good and omnipotent God is an impossible fallacy.

The beautiful is beautiful. The beautiful is noble. The beautiful is difficult.