“
What she needs are stories.
Stories are a way to preserve one's self. To be remembered. And to forget.
Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books.
Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.
”
”
George R.R. Martin
“
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
”
”
Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)
“
Fang: “Let them blow up the world, and global-warm it, and pollute it. You and me and the others will be holed up somewhere, safe. We’ll come back out when they’re all gone, done playing their games of world domination."
Max: “That’s a great plan. Of course, by then we won’t be able to go outside because we’ll get fried by the lack of the ozone layer. We’ll be living at the bottom of the food chain because everything with flavor will be full of mercury or radiation or something! And there won’t be any TV or cable because all the people will be dead! So our only entertainment will be Gazzy singing the constipation song! And there won’t be amusement parks and museums and zoos and libraries and cute shoes! We’ll be like cavemen, trying to weave clothes out of plant fibers. We’ll have nothing! Nothing! All because you and the kids want to kick back in a La-Z-Boy during the most important time in history!”
Fang: “So maybe we should sign you up for a weaving class. Get a jump start on all those plant fibers.”
Max: "I HATE YOU!!!"
Fang: "NO YOU DOOOOOON'T!!"
Voice: "You two are crazy about each other.
”
”
James Patterson (Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports (Maximum Ride, #3))
“
We all have our la-la-la song. The thing we do when the world isn't singing a nice tune to us. We sing our own nice tune to drown out ugly.
”
”
Rita Williams-Garcia (One Crazy Summer (Gaither Sisters, #1))
“
There is an indescribable feeling that comes from being desperately in love with a song.
”
”
Nina LaCour (Hold Still)
“
I listened to the same heartbroken song the entire bus ride home, because it was still a summer when sadness was beautiful.
”
”
Nina LaCour (We Are Okay)
“
Si le cortas la lengua a un hombre, no demuestras que estuviera mintiendo: demuestras que no quieres que el mundo oiga lo que pueda decir.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
“
Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books.
”
”
V.E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
You wouldn't think the touch of someone's hand could blow your mind. It's nothing, right? People don't right songs and poems about holding hands - they write them about kisses and sex and eternal love. I mean, when you're a little kid you hold hands with your parents to cross the street. Who's going to write an ode to that?
We were alone in the dark, even though the enormous theater was filled with probably a thousand people. We were a tiny island in a sea of other people who didn't matter, who had no meaning, who were so stupid, so oblivious, so stuck in their own boring lives that they didn't even notice the huge, momentous, life-shattering event that was taking place right there in row L, between seats 102 and 104.
Derek Edwards was holding my hand.
”
”
Claire LaZebnik (Epic Fail)
“
- Pero, ¿me perdonarás?
- No necesito perdonarte. -alargué mi mano para coger la suya-. Tú no puedes ofenderme.
”
”
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
“
Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como austente y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca. Como todas las cosas estan llenas de mi alma emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mia. Mariposa de sueno, te pareces a mi alma, y te pareces a la palabra melancolia.
”
”
Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)
“
Cuando la gente se muere de hambre, no ve con buenos ojos a los sacerdotes que están tan gordos que no pueden caminar.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2))
“
He doesn't know it, but he's been working on this song for weeks. Well, they have.
Together.
She smiles a little as she plays on. This is the grass between the nettles. A safe place to step. She can't leave her own mark, but if she's careful, she can give the mark to someone else. Nothing concrete, of course, but inspiration rarely is.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
Let's walk down the road that has no end
Steal away where only angels tread
Heaven or hell or somewhere in between
Cross your heart to take me when you leave
Don't go
Please don't go
Don't go without me
”
”
The Civil Wars
“
I don't know why
time
is dancing now
before us
soft and sandy
like the poets' women.
it wants me in all songs.
maybe you'd take me in for a moment
to your Andalusia
where today
no one has died.
”
”
Monica Laura Rapeanu (Orbul de la Cină (The Blind Man at Dinner))
“
There are still Ava Maddoxes to find and sets to create and girls to kiss and colleges to attend. It's possible that someday I will hear a patsy Cline song and the heartbreak will barely register. It will be some distant, buried feeling. I won't remember how much it once hurt.
”
”
Nina LaCour (Everything Leads to You)
“
−Di el nombre de un héroe que fuera feliz. No eres Capaz.
−No
−Lo sé. Nunca te dejan ser famoso y feliz. Voy a contarte un secreto.
−Dime.
−Yo voy a ser el primero. Júralo.
−¿Por qué yo?
−Porque tu eres la razón. Júralo.
”
”
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
“
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.
”
”
Carol Ann Duffy
“
Mai, mai dimenticare chi sei, perché di certo il mondo non lo dimenticherà. Trasforma chi sei nella tua forza così non potrà mai essere la tua debolezza. Fanne un'armatura e non potrà mai essere usata contro di te.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
“
Incluso en estos tiempos
en los que soy feliz de otra manera,
todos los días tienen ese instante
en que me jugaría la primavera
por tenerte delante.
”
”
Joaquín Sabina
“
wait for me in a song!
if you’ve come to dinner,
release your dogs,
pour the wine into the sky,
for all the longing ghosts
of the grapes (...)
”
”
Monica Laura Rapeanu (Orbul de la Cină (The Blind Man at Dinner))
“
My mom says Ingrid's name and I start to hum, not the melody to a song, just one drawn-out note. I know it makes me seem crazy, I know it won't make anything change, but it's better than crying, it's better than screaming, it's better than listening to what they're telling me.
”
”
Nina LaCour (Hold Still)
“
Con dos ojos puedes verme la cara. Con tres podrías verme el corazón. Con dos puedes ver aquel roble. Con tres podrías ver la bellota de la que nació y el tocón seco en que se convertirá algún día. Con dos no ves más allá de tus paredes. Con tres podrías ver el mar del Verano, al sur, y el norte más allá del Muro
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2))
“
No one will know if you stay in bed all day. No one will know if you wear the same sweatpants for the entire month, if you eat every meal in front of television shows and use T-shirts as napkins. Go ahead and listen to that same song on repeat until its sound turns to nothing and you sleep the winter away. I
”
”
Nina LaCour (We Are Okay)
“
Where did you learn to do that?”
“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it.”
He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment.
”
”
C.D. Reiss (Beg Tease Submit (Songs of Submission, #1-3))
“
Satirists, be careful. In the 1931 film by Rene Clair “Vive la Liberte” a song says, “Work is freedom.” In 1940 the sign on the gates to Auschwitz said: “Arbeit macht frei.
”
”
Stanisław Jerzy Lec
“
Se inclinó hacia mí, envuelto en bronce, oliendo a sudor, cuero y metal. Cerré los ojos al sentir sobre mis labios los suyos, la única parte aún suave de Aquiles. Después de marcho.
”
”
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
“
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.
”
”
Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)
“
Abrir los ojos es lo único necesario. El corazón miente y la mente engaña, pero los ojos ven. Mira con los ojos. Escucha con los oídos. Saborea con la boca. Huele con la nariz. Siente con la piel. Y sólo luego piensa, y así sabrás la verdad.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
“
Saying good-bye, perhaps to her father -- her favorite person in this world. this is how she would remember him. Not by the sad unknowing in his eyes, or the grim set of his jaw as he led her to church, but by the things he loved. By the way he showed her how to hold a stick of charcoal, coaxing shapes and shades with the weight of her hand. The songs and stories, the sights from the five summers she went with him to market, when Adeline was old enough to travel, not old enough to cause a stir. By the careful gift of a wooden ring, made for his first and only daughter when she was born -- the one she then offered to the dark.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
I don't know if any of this would have happened if we had been at home... Would we have crammed ourselves into the bathroom of a San Francisco restaurant to play her song? I doubt it. There's something about distance, being removed from what's familiar, that let's things happen.
”
”
Nina LaCour (The Disenchantments)
“
One day you'll hear that song you both liked on the radio and it won't make you cry. You'll wake up one morning and they won't be the first thing you think about, or the last thing you think about when you're falling asleep at night. Their face won't be the one you see any more when you close your eyes, or in a crowd when you're walking down a street. And when something makes you laugh, or cry, they won't be the person you want to share it with.
”
”
Alexandra Potter (Going La La)
“
You were born with a song in the seat of your soul; let the life that you live be the singing of it.
”
”
LaShaun Middlebrooks Collier
“
La buena reputación es conveniente dejarla caer a los pies de la cama
hoy tienes una ocasión de demostrar que eres una mujer además de una dama.
”
”
Joaquín Sabina
“
Nunca ha existido un esclavo que no escogiera ser esclavo. Puede que la elección fuera entre los grilletes y la muerte, pero la elección estaba siempre allí.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Dance with Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire, #5))
“
I now wear the memory of nothingness
a piece of white sail wrapped like second skin.
”
”
Helene Cardona (Life in Suspension: La Vie Suspendue)
“
Me bastaba un simple roce o el olor para identificarle, y si me quedara ciego, podría reconocerle por el modo en que respiraba o en que pisaba el suelo. Le reconocería en el fin del mundo, incluso en la muerte.
”
”
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
“
Swan dive down eleven stories high
Hold your breath until you see the light
You can sink to the bottom of the sea
Just don't go without me
”
”
The Civil Wars
“
Il a le mal d'un siècle qui n'est pas le sien ;
Il se sent l'héritier amer d'un spleen ancien.
”
”
Clémentine Beauvais (Songe à la douceur)
“
You listen to the silence
drawn on the ashes of ancient sacrifices.
”
”
Helene Cardona (Life in Suspension: La Vie Suspendue)
“
I become ocean, mercury, silver
shimmers, fairy tales, fascinated.
”
”
Helene Cardona (Life in Suspension: La Vie Suspendue)
“
And it should feel good to hear her music, it should feel right.
After all, she has gone to visit pieces of her art so many times.
But they were only pieces, stripped of context. Sculptured birds on marble plinths, and paintings behind ropes. Didactic boxes taped to whitewashed walls and glass boxes that keep the present from the past.
It is a different thing when the glass breaks.
It is her mother in the doorway, withered to bone.
It is Remy in the Paris salon.
It is Sam, inviting her to stay, every time.
It is Toby Marsh, playing their song.
The only way Addie knows how to keep going is to keep going forward. They are Orpheus, she is Eurydice, and every time they turn back, she is ruined.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
A sad fact widely known
The most impassionate song
To a lonely soul
Is so easily outgrown
But dont forget the songs
That made you smile
And the songs that made you cry
When you lay in awe
On the bedroom floor
And said : oh, oh, smother me mother...
No ...
Rubber ring, rubber ring, rubber ring, rubber ring
La ...
The passing of time
And all of its crimes
Is making me sad again
The passing of time
And all of its sickening crimes
Is making me sad again
But dont forget the songs
That made you cry
And the songs that saved your life
Yes, youre older now
And youre a clever swine
But they were the only ones who ever stood by you
The passing of time leaves empty lives
Waiting to be filled (the passing ...)
The passing of time
Leaves empty lives
Waiting to be filled
Im here with the cause
Im holding the torch
In the corner of your room
Can you hear me ?
And when youre dancing and laughing
And finally living
Hear my voice in your head
And think of me kindly
”
”
Morrissey
“
«Si el hielo puede arder, el amor y el odio se pueden emparejar. Montaña o pantano, da igual. La tierra es una» —Jojen.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, #3))
“
Soy Aquiles, hijo de Peleo, hijo de dioses, el mejor de los griegos. He venido a traeros la victoria.
”
”
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
“
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
”
”
Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)
“
We packed
whole lives into bundles in search
of what chooses us, what wants to come
back to the surface, what needs to be said.
We had so many dreams
we didn’t know what to make of them.
”
”
Helene Cardona (Life in Suspension: La Vie Suspendue)
“
The first six months are what I call the La La Land phase. This is what a lot of romantic novels, songs, and movies are based upon. Enjoy the courtship, nights out, and fun. You will eventually come back to reality.
”
”
Pamela Cummins (Insights for Singles: Steps to Find Everlasting Love)
“
I never wanted to be a star, I never wanted to travel far / I only wanted a little bit of love so I could put a little love in my heart / I never wanted to be la-de-da, go to parties ‘avec le bourgeois’ / I only wanted to sing my song well so I could ring a small bell in your heart
”
”
Yusuf Islam
“
I was about to ask Alec how he was getting on with the dealf when I heard him singing. The fucker was not only good looking, but he could sing and sing really well. His choice of song caused my eyes to roll though.
"Sex bomb, sex bomb, I'm a sex bomb-"
"You're a sex bomb!" I corrected the lyric cutting him off as I went into the bathroom.
”
”
L.A. Casey (Alec (Slater Brothers, #2))
“
YOU
You are that song that plays rarely on the radio,
But when it does I have to sing it out loud…
You are the water that formed a puddle on a rainy day,that I played in,
When I was only eight years old.
You are the first snowfall of the season,
And the reason I like the morning...
You’re a single seashell that washed up onto the shore.
You are my set of old medals
Hidden deep in a drawer…
You are the sun, the moon, the stars, and all the planets.
You are the first breath of a baby just born.
Eres una dandelion que encuentro,
I pull, make a wish, then blow.
You are the sunrise that I tried to paint
after I woke up in Eilat.
You give the nights its meaning…
to dream, while others just sleep.
You are my 3rd grade valentine,
Read, frayed and loved a thousand times.
Eres perfección envuelto en humildad…
Eres oro, plata, y diamantes…
Eres mi querido viejito Pooh, que nunca lo abandonare.
You are my first time driving my brother’s Impala,
When I was just fourteen.
You are the name hidden deep inside my name…
And I’m the fingers interlaced with yours.
Eres el PS: I love you at the end la carta,
Y yo soy el PS: I love you too.
Somos el principio, el medio y la ultima palabra
De mi libro final.
Eternamente nosotros, nosotros, nosotros…
Porque nosotros siempre es mejor
Que solamente… yo…
YOU
”
”
José N. Harris
“
La hojita más pequeña de hierba nos enseña que la muerte no existe;
que si alguna vez existió, fue sólo para producir la vida.
”
”
Walt Whitman (Song of Myself)
“
Si media cebolla está podrida, la cebolla está podrida. Un hombre es bueno o malo...
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2))
“
Vraiment, quand j'y songe, la littérature n'a qu'une raison d'être, sauver celui qui la fait du dégoût de vivre!
”
”
Joris-Karl Huysmans
“
Podría reconocerle por el modo en que respiraba o en que pisaba el suelo. Le reconocería en el fin del mundo, incluso en la muerte.
”
”
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
“
La route quelquefois s'agrémente de fables, comme le sommeil s'agrémente de songes, il faut savoir ouvrir les yeux à l'arrivée.
”
”
Amin Maalouf (Balthasar's Odyssey)
“
Her eyes were a poem; their every glance was a song
”
”
Théophile Gautier (La Morte Amoureuse)
“
Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books. Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
No me llores, porque si lloras yo peno, en cambio si tu cantas yo siempre vivo, y nunca muero. Don’t mourn me, if you cry for me I grieve your pain, instead if you sing to me I’ll always live, and my spirit will never die. “LA MARTINIANA,” A MEXICAN FOLK SONG
”
”
Aiden Thomas (Cemetery Boys)
“
«Aguja era Robb, Bran, Rickon, su madre y su padre, hasta Sansa. Aguja era los muros grises de Invernalia y las risas de sus habitantes. Aguja era las nieves del verano, los cuentos de la Vieja Tata, el árbol corazón con sus hojas rojas y su rostro aterrador, el cálido olor a tierra de los jardines de cristal, el sonido del viento del norte contra los postigos de su habitación. Aguja era la sonrisa de Jon Nieve»
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire, #4))
“
Werther identifies himself with the madman, with the footman. As a reader, I can identify myself with Werther. Historically, thousands of subjects have done so, suffering, killing themselves, dressing, perfuming themselves, writing as if they were Werther (songs, poems, candy boxes, belt buckles, fans, colognes a' la Werther). A long chain of equivalences links all the lovers in the world. In the theory of literature, "projection" (of the reader into the character) no longer has any currency: yet it is the appropriate tonality of imaginative readings: reading a love story, it is scarcely adequate to say I project myself; I cling to the image of the lover, shut up with his image in the very enclosure of the book (everyone knows that such stories are read in a state of secession, of retirement, of voluptuous absence: in the toilet).
”
”
Roland Barthes (A Lover's Discourse: Fragments)
“
Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true? We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La. They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to Middle Earth..
”
”
George R.R. Martin
“
Para mentiras las de la realidad
promete todo pero nada te da,
yo nunca de mentí
más que por verte reir.
Menos piadosas que las del corazón
son las mentiras de la diosa razón,
yo solo te conté media verdad al revés
(que no es igual que media mentira).
Mejor que yo miente la necesidad;
sabe de sobra como hacerte llorar;
mi crimen fue vestir
de azul al príncipe gris.
”
”
Joaquín Sabina
“
I probably won’t play a song the same way tomorrow as I play it today. Only a pitchman says the same thing the same way twice, without varying a word. If music is a language, why don’t people use it with the same subtlety, nuance, and facility as they do the spoken language? Probably because they don’t verbalize with the same vocabulary and tone they once did. It has been said that a people’s character is reflected in their music. Our culture is a perfect example. If people here walk around using one-syllable words with no color, no variety, no shading, how can we expect our musical language to be any different? It’s like the emperor’s new clothes – sure they can sit and make wild noises on their synthesizers and call it music – who questions? But ask them to pull up a chair and play ‘Gal in Calico’ or Temptation,’ or even a straight dramatic version of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and they can’t do it. They’re too pretentious. They can’t just play songs.
”
”
Anton Szandor LaVey (The Secret Life of a Satanist: The Authorized Biography of Anton LaVey)
“
El corazón miente y la mente engaña, pero los ojos ven. Mira con los ojos. Escucha con los oídos. Saborea con la boca. Huele con la nariz. Siente con la piel. Y no pienses hasta después, y así sabrás la verdad.
—Syrio Forel
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
“
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
.
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.
.
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
.
Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.
”
”
Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)
“
He breathed a deep ahh and said, “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it.”
He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment.
”
”
C.D. Reiss (Beg (Songs of Submission, #1))
“
Mes amis, j'écris ce petit mot pour vous dire que je vous aime, que je pars avec la fierté de vous avoir connus, l'orgueil d'avoir été choisi et apprécié par vous, et que notre amitié fut sans doute la plus belle œuvre de ma vie. C'est étrange, l'amitié. Alors qu'en amour, on parle d'amour, entre vrais amis on ne parle pas d'amitié. L'amitié, on la fait sans la nommer ni la commenter. C'est fort et silencieux. C'est pudique. C'est viril. C'est le romantisme des hommes. Elle doit être beaucoup plus profonde et solide que l'amour pour qu'on ne la disperse pas sottement en mots, en déclarations, en poèmes, en lettres. Elle doit être beaucoup plus satisfaisante que le sexe puisqu'elle ne se confond pas avec le plaisir et les démangeaisons de peau. En mourant, c'est à ce grand mystère silencieux que je songe et je lui rends hommage.
Mes amis, je vous ai vus mal rasés, crottés, de mauvaise humeur, en train de vous gratter, de péter, de roter, et pourtant je n'ai jamais cessé de vous aimer. J'en aurais sans doute voulu à une femme de m'imposer toutes ses misères, je l'aurais quittée, insultée, répudiée. Vous pas. Au contraire. Chaque fois que je vous voyais plus vulnérables, je vous aimais davantage. C'est injuste n'est-ce pas? L'homme et la femme ne s'aimeront jamais aussi authentiquement que deux amis parce que leur relation est pourrie par la séduction. Ils jouent un rôle. Pire, ils cherchent chacun le beau rôle. Théâtre. Comédie. Mensonge. Il n'y a pas de sécurité en l'amour car chacun pense qu'il doit dissimuler, qu'il ne peut être aimé tel qu'il est. Apparence. Fausse façade. Un grand amour, c'est un mensonge réussi et constamment renouvelé. Une amitié, c'est une vérité qui s'impose. L'amitié est nue, l'amour fardé.
Mes amis, je vous aime donc tels que vous êtes.
”
”
Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt (La Part de l'autre)
“
For a moment she was truly terrified. This was Abbadon the Cruel. The Angel of Destruction. He could and would destroy her if he had to. If he felt like it. He had destroyed worlds before. He had decimated Paradise in the name of the Morningstar.
She trembled in his grasp.
All his gentleness, all his kindness, all the bright shining gorgeousness of his love, he had always given to
someone else. He had adored Gabrielle, had worshiped her, had written her poems and sang her songs, and for Schuyler there were novels and love notes and sweet kisses and furtive tender meetings by a fireplace.
But for his twin, Azrael, he had shown nothing but his anger and violence. His strength and destruction.
He saved the best of himself for those who did not deserve it. Never showed his true face to those damnable Daughters of the Light.
For Azrael, there was only darkness and annihilation.
Rape and carnage.
War and pillage.
A tear escaped from her eye and glittered in the moonlight.
”
”
Melissa de la Cruz
“
Practical advice.—People who read much must always keep it in mind that life is one thing, literature another. Not that authors invariably lie. I declare that there are writers who rarely and most reluctantly lie. But one must know how to read, and that isn't easy. Out of a hundred bookreaders ninety-nine have no idea what they are reading about. It is a common belief, for example, that any writer who sings of suffering must be ready at all times to open his arms to the weary and heavy-laden. This is what his readers feel when they read his books. Then when they approach him with their woes, and find that he runs away without looking back at them, they are filled with indignation and talk of the discrepancy between word and deed. Whereas the fact is, the singer has more than enough woes of his own, and he sings them because he can't get rid of them. L’uccello canta nella gabbia, non di gioia ma di rabbia, says the Italian proverb: "The bird sings in the cage, not from joy but from rage." It is impossible to love sufferers, particularly hopeless sufferers, and whoever says otherwise is a deliberate liar. "Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." But you remember what the Jews said about Him: "He speaks as one having authority!" And if Jesus had been unable, or had not possessed the right, to answer this skeptical taunt, He would have had to renounce His words. We common mortals have neither divine powers nor divine rights, we can only love our neighbours whilst they still have hope, and any pretence of going beyond this is empty swagger. Ask him who sings of suffering for nothing but his songs. Rather think of alleviating his burden than of requiring alleviation from him. Surely not—for ever should we ask any poet to sob and look upon tears. I will end with another Italian saying: Non è un si triste cane che non meni la coda... "No dog so wretched that doesn't wag his tail sometimes.
”
”
Lev Shestov (All Things Are Possible and Penultimates Words and Other Essays (English and Greek Edition))
“
Somehow it felt familiar, an old story retold, the claws in my shoulder, my arms twisted behind my back, the drag down the street, Will assisting my father and thinking how much fun it was to hunt someone down. I knew it all. Each snarled command was a line from an old but faithless song. “Pipe down! I’m not going to hurt you! I just want to talk to you! This is for your own good!
”
”
Kaimana Wolff (La Chiripa (The Widening Gyre #2))
“
What she needs are stories. Stories are a way to preserve one’s self. To be remembered. And to forget. Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books. Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
I scooted out of the laundry room and skipped down the hallway, arms flaying around my head like one of the hot pink puppets from the movie Labyrinth. “A scent and a sound, I’m lost and I’m found. And I’m hungry like the wolf. Something on a line, it’s discord and rhyme—whatever, whatever, la la la—Mouth is alive, all running inside, and I’m hungry like the—” Warmth spread down my neck.
“It’s actually, ‘I howl and I whine. I’m after you,’ and not blah or whatever.”
Startled by the deep voice, I shrieked and whipped around. My foot slipped on a section of well-cleaned wood and my butt smacked on the floor.
“Holy crap,” I gasped, clutching my chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“And I think you broke your butt.” Laughter filled Daemon’s voice.
I remained sprawled across the narrow hallway, trying to catch my breath. “What the hell? Do you just walk into people’s houses?”
“And listen to girls absolutely destroy a song in a matter of seconds? Well, yes, I make a habit out of it. Actually, I knocked several times, but I heard your…singing, and your door was unlocked.” He shrugged.
“So I just let myself in.”
“I can see that.” I stood, wincing. “Oh, man, maybe I did break my butt.”
“I hope not. I’m kind of partial to your butt.” He flashed a smile. “Your face is pretty red. You sure you didn’t smack that on the way down?”
I groaned. “I hate you.
”
”
Jennifer L. Armentrout
“
Le poison de Venise, c’est la féerie d’une architecture de songe dans la douceur d’une atmosphère de soie ; ce sont les trésors des siècles, amassés là par une race de marchands et de pirates, la magnificence de l’Orient et de l’ancienne Byzance miraculeusement alliée à la grâce de l’art italien, les mosaïques de Saint-Marc et le revêtement rosé du palais ducal ; le poison de Venise, c’est la solitude de tant de palais déserts, le rêve des lagunes, le rythme nostalgique des gondoles, le grandiose de tant de ruines ; dans des colorations de perles —perles roses à l’aurore et noires au crépuscule —, le charme de tristesse et de splendeur de tant de gloires irrémédiablement disparues ; et dans le plus lyrique décor dont se soit jamais enivré le monde, la morbide langueur d’une pourriture sublime.
”
”
Jean Lorrain (Pelléastres (French Edition))
“
A bien calculer quand on songe, c'est peut-être ça L'Espérance ? Et l'avenir esthétique aussi ! Des guerres qu'on saura plus pourquoi !... De plus en plus formidables ! Qui laisseront plus personne tranquille !... que tout le monde en crèvera... deviendra des héros sur place... et poussière par-dessus le marché !... Qu'on débarrassera la Terre... Qu'on a jamais servi à rien... Le nettoyage par l'Idée...
”
”
Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Mea culpa: Un pamphlet politico)
“
She draws him out of bed, and into the kitchen, and Henry sits on a stool and listens as she makes an omelet and tells him about the first time she flew a plane, heard a song on the radio, saw a moving picture.
This is the last gift she can give him, these moments he will never have.
And this is the last gift he can give her, the listening.
And he wishes they could climb back into bed with Book, but they both know there’s no going back. And now that he’s up, he cannot bear the stillness. He is all restless energy, and urgent need, and there isn’t enough time, and he knows of course that there will never be.
That time always ends a second before you’re ready.
That life is the minutes you want minus one.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
La raison qui m’a conduit à proférer de la poésie (shi‘r) est que j’ai vu en songe un ange qui m’apportait un morceau de lumière blanche ; on eût dit qu’il provenait du soleil. « Qu’est-ce que cela ? », Demandai-je. « C’est la sourate al-shu‘arâ (Les Poètes) » me fut-il répondu. Je l’avalai et je sentis un cheveu (sha‘ra) qui remontait de ma poitrine à ma gorge, puis à ma bouche. C’était un animal avec une tête, une langue, des yeux et des lèvres. Il s’étendit jusqu’à ce que sa tête atteigne les deux horizons, celui d’Orient et celui d’Occident. Puis il se contracta et revint dans ma poitrine ; je sus alors que ma parole atteindrait l’Orient et l’Occident. Quand je revins à moi, je déclamai des vers qui ne procédaient d’aucune réflexion ni d’aucune intellection. Depuis lors cette inspiration n’a jamais cessé.
”
”
Ibn ʿArabi
“
—Hay muchas cosas que no comprendo —reconoció Davos—. Nunca he dicho lo contrario. Sé de ríos y de mares, de la forma de las costas y dónde acechan las rocas en los bajíos. Sé de calas secretas en las que un barco puede atracar sin que nadie lo vea. Y sé que un rey protege a su pueblo, de lo contrario no es un rey.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, #3))
“
Lorsque j’ai commencé à voyager en Gwendalavir aux côtés d'Ewìlan et de Salim, je savais que, au fil de mon écriture, ma route croiserait celle d'une multitude de personnages. Personnages attachants ou irritants, discrets ou hauts en couleurs, pertinents ou impertinents, sympathiques ou maléfiques... Je savais cela et je m'en réjouissais.
Rien, en revanche, ne m'avait préparé à une rencontre qui allait bouleverser ma vie.
Rien ne m'avait préparé à Ellana.
Elle est arrivée dans la Quête à sa manière, tout en finesse tonitruante, en délicatesse remarquable, en discrétion étincelante. Elle est arrivée à un moment clef, elle qui se moque des serrures, à un moment charnière, elle qui se rit des portes, au sein d’un groupe constitué, elle pourtant pétrie d’indépendance, son caractère forgé au feu de la solitude.
Elle est arrivée, s'est glissée dans la confiance d'Ewilan avec l'aisance d'un songe, a capté le regard d’Edwin et son respect, a séduit Salim, conquis maître Duom... Je l’ai regardée agir, admiratif ; sans me douter un instant de la toile que sa présence, son charisme, sa beauté tissaient autour de moi.
Aucun calcul de sa part. Ellana vit, elle ne calcule pas. Elle s'est contentée d'être et, ce faisant, elle a tranquillement troqué son statut de personnage secondaire pour celui de figure emblématique d'une double trilogie qui ne portait pourtant pas son nom. Convaincue du pouvoir de l'ombre, elle n'a pas cherché la lumière, a épaulé Ewilan dans sa quête d'identité puis dans sa recherche d'une parade au danger qui menaçait l'Empire.
Sans elle, Ewilan n'aurait pas retrouvé ses parents, sans elle, l'Empire aurait succombé à la soif de pouvoir des Valinguites, mais elle n’en a tiré aucune gloire, trop équilibrée pour ignorer que la victoire s'appuyait sur les épaules d'un groupe de compagnons soudés par une indéfectible amitié.
Lorsque j'ai posé le dernier mot du dernier tome de la saga d'Ewilan, je pensais que chacun de ses compagnons avait mérité le repos. Que chacun d'eux allait suivre son chemin, chercher son bonheur, vivre sa vie de personnage libéré par l'auteur après une éprouvante aventure littéraire.
Chacun ?
Pas Ellana.
Impossible de la quitter. Elle hante mes rêves, se promène dans mon quotidien, fluide et insaisissable, transforme ma vision des choses et ma perception des autres, crochète mes pensées intimes, escalade mes désirs secrets...
Un auteur peut-il tomber amoureux de l'un de ses personnages ?
Est-ce moi qui ai créé Ellana ou n'ai-je vraiment commencé à exister que le jour où elle est apparue ? Nos routes sont-elles liées à jamais ?
— Il y a deux réponses à ces questions, souffle le vent à mon oreille. Comme à toutes les questions. Celle du savant et celle du poète.
— Celle du savant ? Celle du poète ? Qu'est-ce que...
— Chut... Écris.
”
”
Pierre Bottero (Ellana (Le Pacte des MarchOmbres, #1))
“
Something that once had importance might be forgotten by most people but because millions of people once knew it, a force is present that can be harnessed. There might be so much significance attached to a song, for example, or a fact, that it can’t die but only lies dormant, like a vampire in his coffin, waiting to be called forth from the grave once again. There is more magic in the fact that the first mass worldwide photo of the Church of Satan was taken by Joe Rosenthal – the same man who took the most famous news photo in history – the flag-raising at Iwo Jima. There’s real occult significance to that – much more than in memorizing grimoires and witches’ alphabets. People ask me about what music to use in rituals – what is the best occult music. I’ve instructed people to go to the most uncrowded section of the music store and it’s a guarantee what you’ll find there will be occult music. That’s the power of long-lost trivia. I get irritated by people who turn up their noses and whine ‘Why would anyone want to know that?’ Because once upon a time, everyone in America knew it. Suppose there’s a repository of neglected energy, that’s been generated and forgotten. Maybe it’s like a pressure cooker all this time, just waiting for someone to trigger its release. ‘Here I am,’ it beckons, ‘I have all this energy stored up just waiting for you – all you have to do is unlock the door. Because of man’s stupidity, he’s neglected me to this state of somnambulism – dreaming the ancient dreams – even though I was once so important to him.’ Think about that. A song that was once on millions of lips now is only on your lips. Now what does that contain? Those vibrations of that particular tune, what do they evoke, call up? What do they unlock? The old gods lie dormant, waiting.
”
”
Anton Szandor LaVey (The Secret Life of a Satanist: The Authorized Biography of Anton LaVey)
“
She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarett.
She broke his heart.
He spent his whole life trying to forget.
We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time.
But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind until the night.
He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger.
And finally drank away her memory.
Life is short but this time it was bigger,
Than the strength he had to get up off his knees.
We found him with his face down in the pillow.
With a note that said: I love her til' I die.
And when we buried him beneath the willow,
The angels sang a whiskey lullaby.
La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.
La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.
The rumors flew,
But nobody knew how much she blamed herself for years and years.
She tried to hide the whiskey on her breath.
She finally drank her pain away a little at a time,
But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind until the night.
She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger.
And finally drank away his memory.
Life is short but this time it was bigger,
Than the strength she had to get up off her knees.
We found her with her face down in the pillow.
Clinging to his picture for dear life.
We laid her next to him beneath the willow,
While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.
La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.
La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.
”
”
Brad Paisley (Hits Alive)
“
Sometimes when my favorite songs are on I have to stop what I'm doing and lie down on my carpet and just listen. I feel every word they're singing. Every note. And to think that in twenty years, or ten years, or five, even, I might hear those same songs and just, like, bob my head or something is horrible. Then I'm sure I'll think that I know more about life, but it isn't true. I'll know less.
”
”
Nina LaCour (You Know Me Well)
“
La noche se avecina, ahora empieza mi guardia. No terminará hasta el día de mi muerte. No tomaré esposa, no poseeré tierras, no engendraré hijos. No llevaré corona, no alcanzaré la gloria. Viviré y moriré en mi puesto. Soy la espada en la oscuridad. Soy el vigilante del Muro. Soy el fuego que arde contra el frío, la luz que trae el amanecer, el cuerno que despierta a los durmientes, el escudo que defiende los reinos de los hombres. Entrego mi vida y mi honor a la Guardia de la Noche, durante esta noche y todas las que estén por venir.
”
”
George R.R. Martin (A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2))
“
The alley is a pitch for about twenty women leaning in doorways, chain-smoking. In their shiny open raincoats, short skirts, cheap boots, and high-heeled shoes they watch the street with hooded eyes, like spies in a B movie. Some are young and pretty, and some are older, and some of them are very old, with facial expressions ranging from sullen to wry. Most of the commerce is centred on the slightly older women, as if the majority of the clients prefer experience and worldliness. The younger, prettier girls seem to do the least business, apparent innocence being only a minority preference, much as it is for the aging crones in the alley who seem as if they’ve been standing there for a thousand years.
In the dingy foyer of the hotel is an old poster from La Comédie Française, sadly peeling from the all behind the desk. Cyrano de Bergerac, it proclaims, a play by Edmond Rostand. I will stand for a few moments to take in its fading gaiety. It is a laughing portrait of a man with an enormous nose and a plumed hat. He is a tragic clown whose misfortune is his honour. He is a man entrusted with a secret; an eloquent and dazzling wit who, having successfully wooed a beautiful woman on behalf of a friend cannot reveal himself as the true author when his friend dies. He is a man who loves but is not loved, and the woman he loves but cannot reach is called Roxanne.
That night I will go to my room and write a song about a girl. I will call her Roxanne. I will conjure her unpaid from the street below the hotel and cloak her in the romance and the sadness of Rostand’s play, and her creation will change my life.
”
”
Sting (Broken Music: A Memoir)
“
We get tired, we get weary, we get out of tune with God's music. The praise we attempt to sing, the speaking of His grace…it falls flat like an old,weary guitar string. That's why we have to go out best to let Christ tune our hearts daily—with tension, with gentle rebukes and loving comfort, strumming and tightening until a pure note wings from our soul.
And then we can honestly sing of His grace once again.
”
”
LaKaysha Stenersen (Sing Thy Grace (Songs of the Children Book 3))
“
Eiffel Tower"
To Robert Delaunay
Eiffel Tower
Guitar of the sky
Your wireless telegraphy
Attracts words
As a rosebush the bees
During the night
The Seine no longer flows
Telescope or bugle
EIFFEL TOWER
And it's a hive of words
Or an inkwell of honey
At the bottom of dawn
A spider with barbed-wire legs
Was making its web of clouds
My little boy
To climb the Eiffel Tower
You climb on a song
Do
re
mi
fa
sol
la
ti
do
We are up on top
A bird sings
in the telegraph
antennae
It's the wind
Of Europe
The electric wind
Over there
The hats fly away
They have wings but they don't sing
Jacqueline
Daughter of France
What do you see up there
The Seine is asleep
Under the shadow of its bridges
I see the Earth turning
And I blow my bugle
Toward all the seas
On the path
Of your perfume
All the bees and the words go their way
On the four horizons
Who has not heard this song
I AM THE QUEEN OF THE DAWN OF THE POLES
I AM THE COMPASS THE ROSE OF THE WINDS THAT FADES
EVERY FALL
AND ALL FULL OF SNOW
I DIE FROM THE DEATH OF THAT ROSE
IN MY HEAD A BIRD SINGS ALL YEAR LONG
That's the way the Tower spoke to me one day
Eiffel Tower
Aviary of the world
Sing Sing
Chimes of Paris
The giant hanging in the midst of the void
Is the poster of France
The day of Victory
You will tell it to the stars
”
”
Vicente Huidobro (The Cubist Poets in Paris: An Anthology (French Modernist Library))
“
La luna hung beautifully bright over the horizon, in a sky still dark. Cold breezes blew over the river and ruffled the tall grasses along the bank, making them rustle and chatter. In their waving fronds I sensed small animals stirring. The pure song of a nightingale, a rossinhol, rang across the water, ending in a trill. It was an hour for sprites and fairies. What magic might lurk among the riverbank grasses? Anything was possible just before dawn.
”
”
Julie Berry (The Passion of Dolssa)
“
Straining to hear, I can make out something acoustic. Coming from...the backyard?
I glance down from my bedroom window and feel my jaw fall open. Matt Finch is standing below my window, guitar strapped across his chest. I pull my window up, and I expect the song from that old movie - the one about a guy with a trench coat and the big radio and his heart on his sleeve.
But it's not that. It's not anything I recognise, and I strain to make out the lyrics: Stop being ridiculous, stop being ridiculous, Reagan.
What an asshole.
The mesh screen and two floors between us don't seem like enough to protect him from my anger.
"Nice apology," I call down to him.
"I've apologised thirteen times," he yells back, "and so far you haven't called me back."
I open my mouth to say it doesn't matter, but he's already redirecting the song.
"Now I'm gonna stand here until you forgive me," he sings loudly, "or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won't leave until you come out here."
(...) "This is private property!" My throat feel coarse from how loudly I'm yelling. "And that doesn't even rhyme!"
The guitar chord continues as he sings, "Then call the cops, call the cops, call the cops..."
I storm downstairs, my feet pounding against the staircase. When I turn the corner, my dad looks almost amused from his seat in the recliner. Noticing my expression, he stares back at his newspaper, as if I won't notice him.
(...) "Dad. How did Matt know which window was mine?"
"Well..." he peeks over the sports section. "I reckon I told him."
"You talked to him?" My voice is no longer a voice. It's a shriek. "God, Dad!"
He juts out his chin, defensive. "How was I supposed to know you had some sort of drama with him? He shows up, lookin' to serenade my daughter. Thought it seemed innocent enough. Sweet, even. Old-fashioned."
"It's not any of those things! I hate him!
”
”
Emery Lord (Open Road Summer)
“
He had not stopped looking into her eyes, and she showed no signs of faltering. He gave a deep sigh and recited:
"O sweet treasures, discovered to my sorrow." She did not understand.
"It is a verse by the grandfather of my great-great-grandmother," he explained. "He wrote three eclogues, two elegies, five songs, and forty sonnets. Most of them for a Portuguese lady of very ordinary charms who was never his, first because he was married, and then because she married another man and died before he did."
"Was he a priest too?"
"A soldier," he said.
Something stirred in the heart of Sierva María, for she wanted to hear the verse again. He repeated it, and this time he continued, in an intense, well-articulated voice, until he had recited the last of the forty sonnets by the cavalier of amours and arms Don Garcilaso de la Vega, killed in his prime by a stone hurled in battle.When he had finished, Cayetano took Sierva María's hand and placed it over his heart. She felt the internal clamor of his suffering.
"I am always in this state," he said.
And without giving his panic an opportunity, he unburdened himself of the dark truth that did not permit him to live. He confessed that every moment was filled with thoughts of her, that everything he ate and drank tasted of her, that she was his life, always and everywhere, as only God had the right and power to be, and that the supreme joy of his heart would be to die with her. He continued to speak without looking at her, with the same fluidity and passion as when he recited poetry, until it seemed to him that Sierva María was sleeping. But she was awake, her eyes, like those of a startled deer, fixed on him. She almost did not dare to ask:
"And now?"
"And now nothing," he said. "It is enough for me that you know."
He could not go on. Weeping in silence, he slipped his arm beneath her head to serve as a pillow, and she curled up at his side. And so they remained, not sleeping, not talking, until the roosters began to crow and he had to hurry to arrive in time for five-o'clock Mass. Before he left, Sierva María gave him the beautiful necklace of Oddúa: eighteen inches of mother-of-pearl and coral beads.
Panic had been replaced by the yearning in his heart. Delaura knew no peace, he carried out his tasks in a haphazard way, he floated until the joyous hour when he escaped the hospital to see Sierva María. He would reach the cell gasping for breath, soaked by the perpetual rains, and she would wait for him with so much longing that only his smile allowed her to breathe again. One night she took the initiative with the verses she had learned after hearing them so often. 'When I stand and contemplate my fate and see the path along which you have led me," she recited. And asked with a certain slyness: "What's the rest of it?"
"I reach my end, for artless I surrendered to one who is my undoing and my end," he said.
She repeated the lines with the same tenderness, and so they continued until the end of the book, omitting verses, corrupting and twisting the sonnets to suit themselves, toying with them with the skill of masters. They fell asleep exhausted. At five the warder brought in breakfast, to the uproarious crowing of the roosters, and they awoke in alarm. Life stopped for them.
”
”
Gabriel García Márquez (Of Love and Other Demons)
“
Joseph
Voilà c'que c'est, mon vieux Joseph
Que d'avoir pris la plus jolie
Parmi les filles de Galilée
Celle qu'on appelait Marie
Tu aurais pu, mon vieux Joseph
Prendre Sarah ou Déborah
Et rien ne serait arrivé
Mais tu as préféré Marie
Tu aurais pu, mon vieux Joseph
Rester chez toi, tailler ton bois
Plutôt que d'aller t'exiler
Et te cacher avec Marie
Tu aurais pu, mon vieux Joseph
Faire des petits avec Marie
Et leur apprendre ton métier
Comme ton père te l'avait appris
Pourquoi a-t-il fallu, Joseph
Que ton enfant, cet innocent
Ait eu ces étranges idées
Qui ont tant fait pleurer Marie
Parfois je pense à toi, Joseph
Mon pauvre ami, lorsque l'on rit
De toi qui n'avais demandé
Qu'à vivre heureux avec Marie
”
”
Georges Moustaki
“
LA ROSE ET LE RESADA
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Tous deux adoraient la belle
Prisonnière des soldats
Lequel montait à l'échelle
Et lequel guettait en bas
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Qu'importe comment s'appelle
Cette clarté sur leur pas
Que l'un fut de la chapelle
Et l'autre s'y dérobât
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Tous les deux étaient fidèles
Des lèvres du coeur des bras
Et tous les deux disaient qu'elle
Vive et qui vivra verra
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Quand les blés sont sous la grêle
Fou qui fait le délicat
Fou qui songe à ses querelles
Au coeur du commun combat
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Du haut de la citadelle
La sentinelle tira
Par deux fois et l'un chancelle
L'autre tombe qui mourra
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Ils sont en prison Lequel
A le plus triste grabat
Lequel plus que l'autre gèle
Lequel préfère les rats
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Un rebelle est un rebelle
Deux sanglots font un seul glas
Et quand vient l'aube cruelle
Passent de vie à trépas
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Répétant le nom de celle
Qu'aucun des deux ne trompa
Et leur sang rouge ruisselle
Même couleur même éclat
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Il coule il coule il se mêle
À la terre qu'il aima
Pour qu'à la saison nouvelle
Mûrisse un raisin muscat
Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
L'un court et l'autre a des ailes
De Bretagne ou du Jura
Et framboise ou mirabelle
Le grillon rechantera
Dites flûte ou violoncelle
Le double amour qui brûla
L'alouette et l'hirondelle
La rose et le réséda
”
”
Louis Aragon
“
Care and concern imply another aspect of love; that of responsibility. Today responsibility is often meant to denote duty, something imposed upon one from the outside. But responsibility, in its true sense, is an entirely voluntary act; it is my response to the needs, expressed or unexpressed, of another human being. To be “responsible” means to be able and ready to “respond.” Jonah did not feel responsible to the inhabitants of Nineveh. He, like Cain, could ask: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The loving person responds. The life of his brother is not his brother’s business alone, but his own. He feels responsible for his fellow men, as he feels responsible for himself. This responsibility, in the case of the mother and her infant, refers mainly to the care for physical needs. In the love between adults it refers mainly to the psychic needs of the other person. Responsibility could easily deteriorate into domination and possessiveness, were it not for a third component of love, respect. Respect is not fear and awe; it denotes, in accordance with the root of the word (respicere = to look at), the ability to see a person as he is, to be aware of his unique individuality. Respect means the concern that the other person should grow and unfold as he is. Respect, thus, implies the absence of exploitation. I want the loved person to grow and unfold for his own sake, and in his own ways, and not for the purpose of serving me. If I love the other person, I feel one with him or her, but with him as he is, not as I need him to be as an object for my use. It is clear that respect is possible only if I have achieved independence; if I can stand and walk without needing crutches, without having to dominate and exploit anyone else. Respect exists only on the basis of freedom: “l’amour est l’enfant de la liberté” as an old French song says; love is the child of freedom, never that of domination.
”
”
Erich Fromm (The Art of Loving)
“
These are some good questions to ask till one decides on the song, one’s true song: What has happened to my soul-voice? What are the buried bones of my life? In what condition is my relationship to the instinctual Self? When was the last time I ran free? How do I make life come alive again? Where has La Loba gone to? The old woman sings over the bones, and as she sings, the bones flesh out. We too “become” as we pour soul over the bones we have found. As we pour our yearning and our heartbreaks over the bones of what we used to be when we were young, of what we used to know in the centuries past, and over the quickening we sense in the future, we stand on all fours, four-square. As we pour soul, we are revivified. We are no longer a thin solution, a dissolving frail thing. No, we are in the “becoming” stage of transformation.
”
”
Clarissa Pinkola Estés (Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype)
“
Le Métèque
Avec ma gueule de métèque, de juif errant, de pâtre grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents
Avec mes yeux tout délavés, qui me donnent l'air de rêver
Moi qui ne rêve plus souvent.
Avec mes mains de maraudeur, de musicien et de rôdeur
Qui ont pillé tant de jardins
Avec ma bouche qui a bu, qui a embrassé et mordu
Sans jamais assouvir sa faim
Avec ma gueule de métèque, de juif errant, de pâtre grec
De voleur et de vagabond
Avec ma peau qui s'est frottée au soleil de tous les étés
Et tout ce qui portait jupon
Avec mon coeur qui a su faire souffrir autant qu'il a souffert
Sans pour cela faire d'histoire
Avec mon âme qui n'a plus la moindre chance de salut
Pour éviter le purgatoire.
Avec ma gueule de métèque, de juif errant, de pâtre grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents
Je viendrai ma douce captive, mon âme soeur, ma source vive
Je viendrai boire tes vingt ans
Et je serai prince de sang, rêveur, ou bien adolescent
Comme il te plaira de choisir
Et nous ferons de chaque jour, toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir.
Et nous ferons de chaque jour, toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir.
”
”
Georges Moustaki
“
Ode to the Beloved’s Hips"
Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered
percussion in the morning—are the morning.
Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little
longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me—
I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock
right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb
chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna.
How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed
Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur.
My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena,
ecstatic devourer.
O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped
the amber—fast honey—from their openness—
Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked
smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa
coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire
to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet-
dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond—
to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue—
come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips,
I am—strummed-song and succubus.
They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book—
the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel.
Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays,
Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray.
Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera.
Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle:
What do I see? Hips:
Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone.
Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread,
wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be:
Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel.
Bone basin bone throne bone lamp.
Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery—
slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade
in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me
to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit,
laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God,
I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth
for pear upon apple upon fig.
More than all that are your hips.
They are a city. They are Kingdom—
Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire—
thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth.
Beloved, your hips are the war.
At night your legs, love, are boulevards
leading me beggared and hungry to your candy
house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late
and the tables have been cleared,
in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake.
O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve,
a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are
kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning
comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon,
let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me
circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming
for your dark matter.
Along las calles de tus muslos I wander—
follow the parade of pulse like a drum line—
descend into your Plaza del Toros—
hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros.
Your arched hips—ay, mi torera.
Down the long corridor, your wet walls
lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed.
I am the animal born to rush your rich red
muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan,
a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner
thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre
Manolete—press and part you like a wound—
make the crowd pounding in the grandstand
of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.
”
”
Natalie Díaz
“
No more peeping through keyholes! No more mas turbating in the dark! No more public confessions! Unscrew the doors from their jambs! I want a world where the vagina is represented by a crude, honest slit, a world that has feeling for bone and contour, for raw, primary colors, a world that has fear and respect for its animal origins. I’m sick of looking at cunts all tickled up, disguised, deformed, idealized. Cunts with nerve ends exposed. I don’t want to watch young
virgins masturbating in the privacy of their boudoirs or biting their nails or tearing their hair or lying on a bed full of bread crumbs for a whole chapter. I want Madagascan funeral poles, with animal upon animal and at the top Adam and Eve, and Eve with a crude, honest slit between the legs. I want hermaphrodites who are real hermaphrodites, and not make-believes walking around with an atrophied penis or a dried-up cunt. I want a classic purity, where dung is dung and angels are angels. The Bible a la King James, for example. Not the Bible of Wycliffe, not the Vulgate, not the Greek, not the Hebrew, but the glorious, death-dealing Bible that was created when the English
language was in flower, when a vocabulary of twenty thousand words sufficed to build a monument for all time. A Bible written in Svenska or Tegalic, a Bible for the Hottentots or the Chinese, a Bible that has to meander through the trickling sands of French is no Bible-it is a counterfeit and a fraud. The King James Version was created by a race of bone-crushers. It revives the primitive mysteries, revives rape, murder, incest, revives epilepsy, sadism,
megalomania, revives demons, angels, dragons, leviathans, revives magic, exorcism, contagion, incantation, revives fratricide, regicide, patricide, suicide, revives hypnotism, anarchism, somnambulism, revives the song, the dance, the act, revives the mantic, the chthonian, the arcane, the mysterious, revives the power, the evil, and the glory that is God. All brought into the
open on a colossal scale, and so salted and spiced that it will last until the next Ice Age.
A classic purity, then-and to hell with the Post Office authorities! For what is it enables the classics to live at all, if indeed they be living on and not dying as we and all about us are dying? What preserves them against the ravages of time if it be not the salt that is in them? When I read Petronius or Apuleius or Rabelais, how close they seem! That salty tang! That odor of the menagerie! The smell of horse piss and lion’s dung, of tiger’s breath and elephant’s hide. Obscenity, lust, cruelty, boredom, wit. Real eunuchs. Real hermaphrodites. Real pricks. Real cunts. Real banquets! Rabelais rebuilds the walls of Paris with human cunts. Trimalchio tickles his own throat, pukes up his own guts, wallows in his own swill. In the amphitheater, where a big, sleepy pervert of a Caesar lolls dejectedly, the lions and the jackals, the hyenas, the tigers, the spotted leopards are crunching real human boneswhilst the coming men, the martyrs and imbeciles, are walking up the golden stairs shouting Hallelujah!
”
”
Henry Miller (Black Spring)
“
Je suis encore un homme jeune, et pourtant, quand je songe à ma vie, c’est comme une bouteille dans laquelle on aurait voulu faire entrer plus qu’elle ne peut contenir. Est-ce le cas pour toute vie humaine, ou suis-je né dans une époque qui repousse toute limite et qui bat les existences comme les cartes d’un grand jeu de hasard ?
Moi, je ne demandais pas grand-chose. J'aurais aimé ne jamais quitter le village. Les montagnes, les bois, nos rivières, tout cela m’aurait suffi. J’aurais aimé être tenu loin de la rumeur du monde, mais autour de moi bien des peuples se sont entretués. Bien des pays sont morts et ne sont plus que des noms dans les livres d’Histoire. Certains en ont dévoré d’autres, les ont éventrés, violés, souillés. Et ce qui est juste n’a pas toujours triomphé de ce qui est sale.
Pourquoi ai-je dû, comme des milliers d’autres hommes, porter une croix que je n’avais pas choisie, endurer un calvaire qui n’était pas fait pour mes épaules et qui ne me concernait pas? Qui a donc décidé de venir fouiller mon obscure existence, de déterrer ma maigre tranquillité, mon anonymat gris, pour me lancer comme une boule folle et minuscule dans un immense jeu de quilles? Dieu? Mais alors, s’Il existe, s’Il existe vraiment, qu’Il se cache. Qu’Il pose Ses deux mains sur Sa tête, et qu’Il la courbe. Peut-être, comme nous l'apprenait jadis Peiper, que beaucoup d’hommes ne sont pas dignes de Lui, mais aujourd’hui je sais aussi qu’Il n'est pas digne de la plupart d’entre nous, et que si la créature a pu engendrer l’horreur c’est uniquement parce que son Créateur lui en a soufflé la recette.
”
”
Philippe Claudel (Brodeck)
“
Daniel."
He looked up. "El-la.I was wondering if you'd catch me." He offered me a cigarette. I gave him a shame-on-you look;he grinned.
"This is your band?" I asked. Visible piercings aside, no one looked like that went by the name Ax.
"Nope,but I go to school with the lead's sister. Regular guy got food poisoning at a Christmas party last night.I've played with them before."
"Weddings?" It wasn't quite how I'd pictured him performing.
"Usually clubs, but the last one was a bar mitzvah. Musicians have to eat, too," he added, a little sharply.
"Sorry." I wanted to wave the smoke away, but figured that might be adding insult to inury. "I thought you played the guitar."
"Guitar, piano, a little violin, but badly, and I'll have to garrote you ith one of the strings if you tell anyone."
That's the thing about Daniel. Obviously-the violin being a case in point-I don't know him very well,but he seems to hold a grudge for even less time than Frankie. "Secret's safe with me."
He shrugged, telling me he didn't really care. Then, "Nice dress."
"Just when I start liking you a litte.."
He made his vampire-boy face. I could see why it usually worked. "You like me,Ella. Wanna do something when this is over?"
"Tempting," I said. "No, I mean that. But no,thanks. I'm not at my best these days."
"You're good," he said quietly, blowing out a stream of smoke. "You'll be fine."
"Yeah." I shivered. It was bitter outside. "I should go in."
"You should." The cold didn't seem to be bothering him at all, and he wasn't even wearing a jacket over his white dress shirt.
I turned to go. "Oh, I think I figured it out, by the way."
"Figured out what?"
"The question.The one everyone should ask before getting involved with someone. Not 'Will he-slash-she make me happy?' but 'Does it bring out the best in me,being with him?'"
"Him-slash-her," Daniel corrected, clearly amused. Then, "Nope. No way. Wasn't me who posed the question to you, Marino.I would never be so Emo."
"Of course not.But it was one smart boy." I waved. "Hug Frankie for me."
"Will do. Hey.Any requests for the band?"
"'Don't Stop Believin'," I shot back. He rolled his eyes. "I'm curious, in that last song-are the words really 'I cut my chest wide open'?"
"Yup.Followed by, "They come and watch us bleed.Is it art like I was hoping now?" Avett Brothers. Too gruesome for you?"
"You have no idea," I told him. How much I get it.
”
”
Melissa Jensen (The Fine Art of Truth or Dare)
“
Mais les signes de ce qui m'attendait réellement, je les ai tous négligés. Je travaille mon diplôme sur le surréalisme à la bibliothèque de Rouen, je sors, je traverse le square Verdrel, il fait doux, les cygnes du bassin ont reparu, et d'un seul coup j'ai conscience que je suis en train de vivre peut-être mes dernières semaines de fille seule, libre d'aller où je veux, de ne pas manger ce midi, de travailler dans ma chambre sans être dérangée. Je vais perdre définitivement la solitude. Peut-on s'isoler facilement dans un petit meublé, à deux. Et il voudra manger ses deux repas par jour. Toutes sortes d'images me traversent. Une vie pas drôle finalement. Mais je refoule, j'ai honte, ce sont des idées de fille unique, égocentrique, soucieuse de sa petite personne, mal élevée au fond. Un jour, il a du travail, il est fatigué, si on mangeait dans la chambre au lieu d'aller au restau. Six heures du soir cours Victor-Hugo, des femmes se précipitent aux Docks, en face du Montaigne, prennent ci et ça sans hésitation, comme si elles avaient dans la tête toute la programmation du repas de ce soir, de demain peut-être, pour quatre personnes ou plus aux goûts différents. Comment font-elles ? [...] Je n'y arriverai jamais. Je n'en veux pas de cette vie rythmée par les achats, la cuisine. Pourquoi n'est-il pas venu avec moi au supermarché. J'ai fini par acheter des quiches lorraines, du fromage, des poires. Il était en train d'écouter de la musique. Il a tout déballé avec un plaisir de gamin. Les poires étaient blettes au coeur, "tu t'es fait entuber". Je le hais. Je ne me marierai pas. Le lendemain, nous sommes retournés au restau universitaire, j'ai oublié. Toutes les craintes, les pressentiments, je les ai étouffés. Sublimés. D'accord, quand on vivra ensemble, je n'aurai plus autant de liberté, de loisirs, il y aura des courses, de la cuisine, du ménage, un peu. Et alors, tu renâcles petit cheval tu n'es pas courageuse, des tas de filles réussissent à tout "concilier", sourire aux lèvres, n'en font pas un drame comme toi. Au contraire, elles existent vraiment. Je me persuade qu'en me mariant je serai libérée de ce moi qui tourne en rond, se pose des questions, un moi inutile. Que j'atteindrai l'équilibre. L'homme, l'épaule solide, anti-métaphysique, dissipateur d'idées tourmentantes, qu'elle se marie donc ça la calmera, tes boutons même disparaîtront, je ris forcément, obscurément j'y crois. Mariage, "accomplissement", je marche. Quelquefois je songe qu'il est égoïste et qu'il ne s'intéresse guère à ce que je fais, moi je lis ses livres de sociologie, jamais il n'ouvre les miens, Breton ou Aragon. Alors la sagesse des femmes vient à mon secours : "Tous les hommes sont égoïstes." Mais aussi les principes moraux : "Accepter l'autre dans son altérité", tous les langages peuvent se rejoindre quand on veut.
”
”
Annie Ernaux (A Frozen Woman)