“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...
-¿Vos creés?
-... 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 . . .”
“You’ve got on a white coat. (Ephani)
Awesome cognitive powers you have there. (Alexion)”
“If you had to pick between living on the East Coast or the West Coast, which would you choose?" I never told her what I wanted to give as my answer, that I would choose whichever coast my brother happened to be hiding on or locked in a basement near or buried under. I never told her that even if I did know what I wanted to be, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving Lily as long as I knew my brother might show up one day or that whoever was responsible for his leaving was still out there somewhere waiting to do it again and again and again until a thousand Cullen Witters were seeing zombies of their dead brothers standing by their beds at night. I would need to be there to protect him.”
“You're the one who has to live with your choice, everyone else will get over it, move on, no matter what you decide. But you never will”
“You hurt. It's okay. I hurt too. Hold my hand.”
“Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. "Spare my beloved," it may implore. "Heal my life's life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines with my whole nature. God of heaven, bend, hear, be clement!" And after this cry and strife the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, which used to salute him with the whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and heat have quitted, --
"Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to have troubled me."
Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idol shall be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert and scarce can bear.”
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