“Es que habría que saber aceptar las cosas como se dan, y apreciar lo bueno que te pase, aunque no dure. Porque nada es para siempre.”
“- Estoy muy cansado, Valentín. Estoy cansado de sufrir. Vos no sabés, me duelte todo por dentro.
- ¿ Adónde te duele?
- Adentro del pecho, y en la garganta - ¿ Porque será que la tristeza se siente siempre ahí?”
“No creo en eso de vivir el momento, Molina, nadie vive el momento.”
“-Es curioso que uno no pueda estar sin encariñarse con algo. Es como si la mente segregara sentimiento sin parar...
-... lo mismo que el estómago segrega jugo para digerir.”
“- But you have to reason it out then and convince yourself.
- Yes, but there are reasons of the heart that reason doesn't encompass.”
“- And what's so bad about being soft like a woman? Why is it men or whoever, some poor bastard, some queen, can't be sensitive too, if he's got a mind to?
- But if men acted like women there wouldn't be anymore torturers.”
“—¿Y ella no tiene frío?
—No, no se acuerda del frío, está como en otro mundo, ensimismada dibujando a la pantera.
—Si está ensimismada no está en otro mundo. Ésa es una contradicción.
—Sí, es cierto, ella está ensimismada, metida en el mundo
que tiene adentro de ella misma, y que apenas si lo está empezando a descubrir.”
“--And the good thing about feeling happy, you know, Valentin? ...It's that you think it's forever, that one's never ever going to feel unhappy again.”
“—And what's so bad about being soft like a woman? Why is it men or whoever, some poor bastard, some queen, can't be sensitive, too, if he's got a mind to?
—I don't know, but sometimes that kind of behavior can get in a man's way.
—When? When it comes to torturing?”
—No, when it comes to being finished with the torturers.”
—But if men acted like women there wouldn't be anymore torturers.”
“Тогава музиката набира сила, цигулките зазвънтяват триумфално, а тя го пита какво означава тази мелодия. Той казва, че му е любимата, че тези цигулчени талази са водите на една германска река ...”
“Dearest . . . I am writing you once more now, night . . . brings a silence that helps me talk to you, and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair. My dear . . . although life may never let us meet again, and we—because of fate—must always live apart . . . I swear, this heart of mine will be always yours . . . my thoughts, my whole life, forever yours . . . just as this pain . . . belongs . . . to you . . .”
“If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory
That old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.”
“Guess it’ll be Rory then.” Great. More females she’d have to kick out on a daily basis, no matter how many times the man promised the latest one-night stand was the last. “He won’t mind.”
“I bet he won’t,” Van Holtz muttered, slamming his own plate of cake down as he sat cattycorner from her.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No. Not at all. Crash at Reed’s, if that’s what you want. Hope you two are very happy together.”
“Just because I’m crashing at Rory’s place don’t mean we’re doing anything together . . . and why am I explaining this to you?”
He stared at her and asked, “Why do you think?”
Dee thought about it a minute. “You’re interested in Rory Lee?” Ric lowered his head, his eyes shifting from human to wolf. They were blue when wolf. Like an Arctic wolf’s. “You cannot be that clueless, Dee-Ann.”
“But how could they be tormenters if Branza refused to be tormented by them?”
“In the nineteenth century,” he observed, “Jules Verne wrote Round the World in Eighty Days. It seemed a prodigy. Now you can get around it in four, but you do not see much of it on the way.”
“Don't be smart. Smart is only a polished version of dumb. Try intelligence. It will surely see you through.”
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