I love people, everybody.
Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time..
In the pictures, tiny squares represent soldiers, but I see my brothers and Kilorn and everyone like them.
Sayfa 147 - Mare
"Sometimes, it's been still and peaceful, no incidents, and we've all been reasonably happy. But most of the time, it's simply a very narrow strip of plain hell."
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One of the ironies of the history of the Kurds is that it has always been the educated elite who have dreamt of freedom, of a state of their own, of a Kurdistan transcending borders: yet it has always been the tribes who have had real power, the ability to change things, and there has always been an antagonism between the two groups.
Sayfa 109Kitabı okuyor
But Evangeline knew she wasn't really crying about the skirts. It was never about the skirts.
Sayfa 154Kitabı okudu
The seven of us had survived three yearly “purges” because we were each somehow indispensable to the playing company. In the course of four years we were transformed from a rabble of bit players to a small, meticulously trained dramatic troupe. Some of our theatrical assets were obvious: Richard was pure power, six foot three and carved from
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Eve dönerken yol boyunca ağladı. Sessizce, kendi kendine, mevzu çıkarmadan. Benny'i kaybettiği için değil, ona hiçbir zaman sahip olamadığı için. Onun kalbindeki, temizlemeyi umut dahi edemeyeceği o acı için ağladı.
***
She cried all the way home. Quietly, to herself, without drama. Not because she had lost Benny, but because she now knew that she had never had him. She wept for the hurt that he owned, a hurt she could never hope to remove.
It is a well-known fact that a single man with lots of money must be in need of a wife. He may not know this, but neighbours with unmarried daughters are rather sure of it.
Were things but only called by their right name,
Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame.
’Tis strange, but true, for truth is always strange,
Stranger than fiction. If it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
How oft would vice and virtue places change!
The new world would be nothing to the old.
She loved her lord or thought so, but that love
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move
Our feelings ‘gainst the nature of the soil.
"Everything about him seemed to burn, his face, the edges of his hair glistened and seemed to spring off his head, and his eyes were so blue and full of the sun. He looked so young and frail, in spite of the tired line of his mouth. I knew I was talking on more than I was ever likely to be capable of bearing, but there never seemed to be any choice."
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But he said nothing. It seemed the smartest thing to say.
Sayfa 178 - HarperTorch, Nisan 2002Kitabı okuyor
Oh Time, why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it, shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.
"When she allows her rather judicial expression of alertness to soften, she is very attractive. Her sense of matriarchal authority makes most men who meet her anxious, not only to please but impress, as if she were the gracious representative of visiting royalty."
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