Poc Quotes

La vida, perquè sigui vida, s'ha de viure a poc a poc...

Black skin was filled with so many barriers, so many restrictions, so many.

If I could wave a magic wand and eliminate one term from the lexicon of racism discussion, it would be “reverse-racism”. It’s the go-to of every clueless person who can’t be bothered to take any time to understand anything about history or context. Every time I hear it, my faith in humanity diminishes. Use of that term is the easiest way to tell that someone has no idea what racism actually is. These are the same people who will, in response to a POC’s complex and nuanced understanding of racism, quote the dictionary definition to us. They can’t fathom that we know more about our own experiences than the dictionary. ‘Reverse-racism’ is not a thing. Tell your friends.

…any way you engage with your own culture is authentic, because it’s yours.

Support POC-owned business. Economic exploitation is one of the cornerstones of racial oppression. You can help preserve financial independence for people of color by working with and spending your money with POC businesses.

The point is to make room for POC to prioritize their own well-being over the “education” of white people, which I don’t think we allow ourselves enough. White supremacy demands that we centralize whiteness at all times, even when we are supposed to be taking care of ourselves. I reject the idea that white people’s education about my experiences of racism is more important than my psychological well-being and my right to say no to that kind of engagement.

I use the term ‘POC’ because it is a convenient way to group all non-whites together without having to go to the trouble of identifying their differences. Needless to say, this is particularly helpful when it comes to oriental countries like Japan, China and Siam, whose citizens are pretty much indistinguishable.

The moon twangs its silver strings; The river swoons into town; The wind beds down in the pines, Covers itself with stars.

look for the women in the room who have less space than you listen hear them and act on what they’re saying - amplify indigenous. trans. black. brown. women of color voices

I'm not white, no, but I'm just close enough that I could be, and just far enough that you know I'm not. I can check off a diversity box for you and I don't make you nervous - at least not on the surface. I'm the whole package!

What's so great about being seen?" Tara demanded. "What's so important about that?" She might have had the words for it, but I didn't. They locked up in my throat, about being invisible, about being alien and foreign and strange even in the place where I was born, and about the immortality that wove through my parents' lives but ultimately would fail them. Their immortality belonged to other people, and I hated that.

by virtue of living in a racist world nonblack people are raised to be antiblack we are all taught that lighter is better - undoing

I am treacherous with old magic and the noon’s new fury with all your wide futures promised I am woman and not white.

Pe urma, un timp, am surzit, era grozav, nu mai auzeam nimic, facusem dopuri de ceara, solide, eram ca o sticla plina cu simplitatea pura si libera a starii mele, aratam cu degetul la ureche: “sunt surd, ce sa-i faci!”, zâmbeam nevinovat, ceilalti întelegeau, unii ma si compatimeau desi pareau bucurosi ca ei aud, scapasem, n-aveau decât sa se distinga ei în mozaicul lor de întrebari si de raspunsuri gata desenate, n-aveau decât sa-ti teoretizeze singuri teoria, sa-ti toace varza sonora printre dulcile bucurii ale dresajului. Nenorocirea e ca, într-o buna zi, poc! mi-au pleznit dopurile si am început iar sa aud, as fi putut în schimb sa nu vorbesc, sa ma autoamutesc, dar mi se parea aiurea, ar fi fost necinstit si apoi, oricât te-ai amuti, cuvintele tot le auzi, ele ti se strecoara nestingherite prin maduva, asa ca mi-am vazut de treburile mele.

When pro-lifers buy into the lie that one child is more valuable and worthy of protection than another because it is further along or happens to be a product of a violent and inexcusable sexual act, then we are condoning the violent slaughter of children and, like the people working in POC labs across the country, we have the blood of innocents on our hands. Abortion

There is no racism against white people. If you can turn on the tv and see people like you that's not racism. If you can have your favorite characters who are poc race changed to look like you then you don't face racism. If you don't think about Ferguson every single second because your race is being killed every hour, that's not racism. If you don't get called derogatory slurs because of your skin tone that's not racism. If you don't hate your body because of your race that's not racism. If you don't have to go through life knowing people will think of you as ugly or disgusting and hate you simply because your white that's not racism. You don't face racism for being white. Ya people can be jerks about it. But its not institutionalized. That's like saying you face discrimination for being straight. It's not a thing. You don't face racism. You might want to get over that

Your beauty will be in shades of melanin and light.

We have to walk around being perfect all the time just to be seen as human. Don't you ever get tired of being a symbol? Don't you ever just want to be human?

Let's just say there's not a lot of melanin over there. I could probably pay my tuition selling sunscreen between classes.

Quant pot valdre la vida humana si recordem que fa poc morien milions de persones per causes no naturals? Estem plens d’odi i de prejudicis.

Mentre llegia, em vaig enamorar tal com t'adorms: a poc a poc, i després, de cop.

Do you think you can escape me so easily. What? Just drive off to Dallas and think I won’t find you?” “I tried.” I half smiled, and he grinned. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth because you are most definitely worth it.

Era un d'aquells sentiments purs que no entrebanquen l'exercici de la vida, mantinguts gelosament perquè són poc comuns, una d'aquestes il·lusions la pèrdua de les quals trasbalsen molt més l'ànima que no ho farien els gaudis de la possessió.

Remember, and feel free to remind white allies, that you don’t need permission from anyone to pursue self-care. Invite them to spend less time policing POC behavior and more time investigating long-standing systems of oppression and their impact.

Can someone tell me why a person of color would need a white man to save her? Like that’s what I keep on seeing in the media when it comes to POC women talking about POC feminism. Hello? We need a POC woman to stand up for all women. I’ll take the lead!

If you only write what you know, you'll never know anything else. If you only write what you see you'll never see anything else. In order to experience new things you must always step outside of your comfort zone, or your live you life never knowing anything new

On the Hunger Games Fan Race fail and the portrayal of POC in fantasy literature: It is as if the POC in the text are walking around with a great big red sign over them for some editors and it reads I AM NOT A REAL CHARACTER. I AM A PROBLEM YOU MUST DEAL WITH. The white characters are permitted to saunter about with their physical descriptions hanging out all over the place, but best not make mention of dark skin or woolly/curly hair or dark eyes (Unless, of course, that character is white. None of my white-skinned dark-eyed characters had any problem being described as such. And I’m pretty sure that Sól’s curly hair never gave anyone a single pause for thought.) As I said, I understand the desire not to define a POC simply by their physical attributes, and I understand cutting physical descriptions if no other character is described physically – but pussyfooting about in this manner with POC is doing nothing but white wash the characters themselves. It’s already much too hard to get readers to latch onto the fact that some characters may not be caucasian, why must we dance about their physical description as if it were some kind of shameful dirty little secret. You know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of the way homosexuality used to only ever be hinted at in texts. It was up to the reader to ‘read between the lines’ or ‘its there if you look for it’ and all that total bullshit which used to be the norm.

—Van ser feliços, Edita. —Però ha durat tan poc… —La vida, qualsevol vida, dura molt poc. Però si has pogut ser feliç, ni que sigui un instant, haurà valgut la pena viure-la. —Un instant! Com de curt? —Molt curt. N'hi ha prou de ser feliç l'estona que triga un llumí a encendre's i apagar-se.

A rural Venus, Selah rises from the gold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweeps petals of water from her skin. At once, clouds begin to sob for such beauty. Clothing drops like leaves. "No one makes poetry,my Mme. Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,” I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it with our souls.” Desire illuminates the dark manuscript of our skin with beetles and butterflies. After the lightning and rain has ceased, after the lightning and rain of lovemaking has ceased, Selah will dive again into the sunflower-open river.

And although he recognized that tenderness was not the same as passion, and certainly not equivalent to love, for now it seemed to him a suitable substitute.

Perhaps all love stories no matter how varied are essentially the same.

Was she happy? She thought – yes, reasonably so. Then again, what was happiness but the vast terrain between ecstasy and agony? Was this too small an ambition?

Once you break someone’s heart, you are forever its master.

It's not just about Rodney. It's about all of us.

Native Americans cured Cartier's men of scurvy near Montreal in 1535. They repaired Francis Drake's Golden Hind in California so he could complete his round-the-world voyage in 1579. Lewis and Clark's expedition to the Pacific Northwest was made possible by tribe after tribe of American Indians, with help from two Shoshone guides, Sacagawea and Toby, who served as interpreters. When Admiral Peary discovered the North Pole, the first person there was probably neither the European American Peary nor the African American Matthew Henson, his assistant, but their four Inuit guides, men and women on whom the entire expedition relied. Our histories fail to mention such assistance. They portray proud Western conquerors bestriding the world like the Colossus at Rhodes. So long as our textbooks hide from us the roles that people of color have played in exploration, from at least 6000 BC to to the twentieth century, they encourage us to look to Europe and its extensions as the seat of all knowledge and intelligence. So long as they say "discover," they imply that whites are the only people who really matter. So long as they simply celebrate Columbus, rather than teach both sides of his exploit, they encourage us to identify with white Western exploitation rather than study it.

Però sí que temia el pas del temps (…), el minvament de la vida; com any rere any s'anava reduint la part que li corresponia; que poc podia estirar-se ja el marge que li quedava per absorbir, com en els anys de joventut, els colors, els gustos, les tonalitats de l'existència, quan en entrar en una habitació l'omplia i, aturant-se un instant al llindar de la sala, sentia una incertesa exquisida…

Però sí que temia el pas del temps (...), el minvament de la vida; com any rere any s'anava reduint la part que li corresponia; que poc podia estirar-se ja el marge que li quedava per absorbir, com en els anys de joventut, els colors, els gustos, les tonalitats de l'existència, quan en entrar en una habitació l'omplia i, aturant-se un instant al llindar de la sala, sentia una incertesa exquisida...

When you hear stories from other people like you, you feel less alone. When you feel less alone, and like you have a community of people behind you, alongside you, I believe you can live a better life.

Crec en el que pensava el gran poeta Samuel Taylor Coleridge sobre quins eren els punts cardinals de l'educació primerenca: «Treballar amb amor i així crear amor. Acostumar la ment a la precisió intel·lectual i la veritat. Estimular el poder de la imaginació». Coleridge conclou la seva obra Lecture on Education amb aquestes paraules: «Ben poc s'aprèn de la competició o la baralla, tot s'aprèn de la comprensió i de l'amor».

Imagine if you will, experiencing an act of violence and then being asked to talk about what you experienced without expressing any strong emotions. This is clearly inhumane. To be human is to feel. To talk about pain without expressing pain is to expect a human to recall information like a robot. When you insist that BiPOC talk about their painful experiences with racism without expressing any pain, rage or grief, you are asking them to dehumanize themselves.

Perquè el que té la bellesa és que només és bonica fora d'ella mateixa. Vist a través d'un mirall, vaig veure el meu cos com si fos el d'un altre, un noiet que tenia a pocs metres, d'expressió impertorbable, reptant la pròpia pell a quedar-se com estava, com si el sol, en pondre's, no fos ja en alguna altra banda, com si no fos a Ohio. Vaig aconseguir el que volia: que vingués un noi nedant cap a mi. I això que jo no era cap platja, mama. Jo era unes fustes que suraven i intentava recordar d'on m'havia desprès per arribar fins allà.

No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres. Feroçment ens amàvem del matí a la nit. Tot ho recorde mentre vas estenent la roba. Han passat anys, molts anys; han passat moltes coses. De sobte encara em pren aquell vent o l'amor i rodolem per terra entre abraços i besos. No comprenem l'amor com un costum amable com un costum pacífic de compliment i teles (i que ens perdone el cast senyor López-Picó). Es desperta, de sobte, com un vell huracà, i ens tomba en terra els dos, ens ajunta, ens empeny. Jo desitjava, a voltes, un amor educat i en marxa el tocadiscos, negligentment besant-te, ara un muscle i després el peçó d'una orella. El nostre amor és un amor brusc i salvatge, i tenim l'enyorança amarga de la terra, d'anar a rebolcons entre besos i arraps. Què voleu que hi faça! Elemental, ja ho sé. Ignorem el Petrarca i ignorem moltes coses. Les Estances de Riba i les Rimas de Bécquer. Després, tombats en terra de qualsevol manera, comprenem que som bàrbars, i que això no deu ser, que no estem en l'edat, i tot això i allò. No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres, car d'amants com nosaltres en són parits ben pocs.

Though we came from our native Hawaiian mother, Chad and I were perceived and therefore raised as black, which widely cast us as outsiders, nonlocals - and being seen as local in Hawaii was currency. When we first returned to Oahu, we spoke with a Texas twang that also got us teased. Chad has strong emotions surrounding those first few months; he was traumatized by his apparent blackness, which was a nonevent in Dallas and Oakland, where we were among many black kids. In Hawaii, we were some of the few mixed black kids around. And both our parents taught us that because the world would perceive us as black, we were black.

Who you have feelings for—that is not a choice. Feelings happen whether you want them to or not. But love isn’t a feeling; it’s the act of planting a seed and putting in the time and care it needs to grow. It demands hard work and renewal to survive. It demands commitment. By necessity, it cannot be taken lightly.

I love analogies! Let’s have one. Imagine that you dearly love, absolutely crave, a particular kind of food. There are some places in town that do this particular cuisine just amazingly. Lots of people who are into this kind of food hold these restaurants in high regard. But let’s say, at every single one of these places, every now and then throughout the meal, at random moments, the waiter comes over and punches any women at the table right in the face. And people of color and/or LGBT folks as well! Now, most of the white straight cis guys who eat there, they have no problem–after all, the waiter isn’t punching them in the face, and the non-white, non-cis, non-straight, non-guys who love this cuisine keep coming back so it can’t be that bad, can it? Hell, half the time the white straight cis guys don’t even see it, because it’s always been like that and it just seems like part of the dining experience. Granted, some white straight cis guys have noticed and will talk about how they don’t like it and they wish it would stop. Every now and then, you go through a meal without the waiter punching you in the face–they just give you a small slap, or come over and sort of make a feint and then tell you they could have messed you up bad. Which, you know, that’s better, right? Kind of? Now. Somebody gets the idea to open a restaurant where everything is exactly as delicious as the other places–but the waiters won’t punch you in the face. Not even once, not even a little bit. Women and POC and LGBT and various combinations thereof flock to this place, and praise it to the skies. And then some white, straight, cis dude–one of the ones who’s on record as publicly disapproving of punching diners in the face, who has expressed the wish that it would stop (maybe even been very indignant on this topic in a blog post or two) says, “Sure, but it’s not anything really important or significant. It’s getting all blown out of proportion. The food is exactly the same! In fact, some of it is awfully retro. You’re just all relieved cause you’re not getting punched in the face, but it’s not really a significant development in this city’s culinary scene. Why couldn’t they have actually advanced the state of food preparation? Huh? Now that would have been worth getting excited about.” Think about that. Seriously, think. Let me tell you, being able to enjoy my delicious supper without being punched in the face is a pretty serious advancement. And only the folks who don’t get routinely assaulted when they try to eat could think otherwise.

August, diu, sé el que són aquestes (assenyala les lletres). Són lletres. Però aquestes coses petites, què són? Li dic que són comes, que marquen una pausa curta, o un respir, al text. Ella somriu, després inspira, com si es volgués tornar a empassar les paraules, ficar-se-les altre cop dins del cos, potser per oferir unes paraules a la criatura que encara no ha nascut, la narració, la seva… Però no diu res més i jo maldo per respondre-li. Sabies, li dic, que hi ha una papallona que es diu Coma? Respira amb dificultat. És una reacció tan poc apropiada, tan còmica… Ah, sí?, pregunta. Sí, li dic, es diu Coma perquè… Però ella m'atura. No, diu, deixa-m'ho endevinar. Perquè vola de la fulla a la tija i al pètal, només amb una pausa molt breu? Perquè el seu viatge és la seva història, no parar mai, només una pausa breu, sempre en moviment? Somric i assenteixo. Exactament, dic, és això! L'Ona es clava un cop de puny al palmell: Ahà! Se'n torna al seu seient. Però no és veritat, no és aquesta la raó del nom de la papallona Coma. I per descomptat que hi ha punts en els textos, pauses en els viatges. Aturades. La raó autèntica, banal, és que la papallona té una taca a sota de l'ala que sembla una coma.

With diversity things I know people are always like, "oh don't force diversity!" I'm of the opinion that if I read your book and at the end of the book I'm like, it's kinda weird that there are no black people in this? Bad world building. The way I find easiest to explain especially to people who are maybe hesitant to change, is that if you took 100 random people off of the earth and were like "here's 100 people!" The chances of every single one of them being pale white and straight are very unlikely. So when I read a book and you introduce me to over a hundred characters and every single one of them is pale white and straight, it's bad world building. It doesn't feel like a real place to me.

When we talked about "A Modest Proposal" I felt like I was running circles around everybody. I understood that shit better than the professor 'cause he was just a fan. I wasn't an Irishman, but I knew how it felt to have someone standing over you, controlling your life and wanting to call it something else. From the people at the Christian Fellowship to First Academy to my parents to Confucius to thousands of years of ass-backwards Chinese thinking, I knew how it felt. Everything my parents did to me and their parents did to them was justified under the banner of Tradition, Family, and Culture. And when it wasn't them it was someone impressing Christianity onto me and when it wasn't Christianity it was whiteness.

What on earth did we do wrong? What harm did we inflict? What did we do to you? Who are you to judge us? Who gave you the right? Are you the representatives of mankind, or what? Who appointed you? Was it God? Yourselves? You don't care if someone loves to go bowling or shooting! You don't care if someone wants to be a doctor or a flight attendant! So why can't we love someone of the same gender? What makes you say that the way we love is wrong? Because we're not "normal"? Because we don't abide by the provisions of God? The laws of nature? Well, fuck you. What a load of bullshit. You want to create a land for God? Good. Then let's bring back the regulations on sex positions first! Don't use condoms, and only fuck in the missionary position, damn it! Since sex should only be for childbirth, and any other pleasure is against the will of God, am I right? Come to think of it, you guys are fucking disgusting. I mean, I know you all fuck doggy-style and blow each other! So I guess you're all going to hell as well! The same goes for singles who don't copulate at all! If the union of man and woman is what is "normal", singles are the most abnormal of all! You're all going to hell, too! On, and let's just kill all the ugly people, fat people, and poor people while we're at it. Then it'll be heaven on earth, with no abnormal beings! Where the normal are free to kill the abnormal! If you ask me, you uneducated, narrow-minded scumbags are the ones that degrade human nobility! You're fucking revolting! Ignorant morons! Do you feel good? Or pissed off? Mad? Then come at me! Instead of being fucking cowards, bashing someone that's all tied up. Won't it be more fun to beat up a person of color? Kill me before I infect your brains and turn all of you into homosexuals! Kill me first! Stupid scumbags!

I think it's very dangerous to start censoring what authors should and shouldn't write." I open strong, and this gets some approving murmurs from the crowd. But I still see some skeptical faces, especially from the other Asians present, so I continue. "I'd hate to live in a world where we tell people what they should and shouldn't write based on the color of their skin. I mean, turn what you're saying around and see how it sounds. Can a Black writer not write a novel with a white protagonist? What about everyone who has written about World War Two, and never lived through it? You can critique a work on the grounds of literary quality, and its representations of history—sure. But I see no reason why I shouldn't tackle this subject if I'm willing to do the work. And as you can tell by the text, I did do the work. You can look up my bibliographies. You can do the fact- checking yourself. Meanwhile, I think writing is fundamentally an exercise in empathy. Reading lets us live in someone else's shoes. Literature builds bridges; it makes our world larger, not smaller. And as for the question of profit—I mean, should every writer who writes about dark things feel guilty about it? Should creatives not be paid for their work?

My family is like America; we are a blend of melanin and uncertain borders.

I had never said those words because there were no words left. My beloved and I were both exiles from language. Our love couldn't be expressed in words. Our love had been woven into the melodies rendered by his flute, and it was subsumed in the atoms of the air we breathed. It had been consecrated in this shrine. It had never been named. It was an unnamed thing that had remained unspoken, unuttered, unsaid. I did not need to name it when he could already hear it.

No treballi tant, senyor secretari, deixi la paperassa i vingui a finestrejar. Guaiti, fixi's en aqueixa noia tan bonica que travessa la plaça. No badi, cregui'm, això dura poc. En un tres i no res, passem d'embrions incerts a calaveres atònites.

Res és suficient per al qui suficient és poc

Parents from POC groups who had heard feedback about their own identity throughout their lives were more likely to talk to their children about race and ethnicity.

while white women are an oppressed group, they still wield more power than any other group of women—including the power to oppress both men and women of color.

Marca POC de 10 a 20 segundos: • Ejercicio para destaponar la nariz. • Respirar por la nariz en todo momento. • Evitar suspirar y tomar grandes bocanadas de aire. • Practicar la máxima «respirar suave es respirar correctamente», en reposo y durante el ejercicio físico.

You people are living in a bell jar if you think differently. So, you can keep convening your panels and trotting out your woke women POC candidates and all the diversity hires of the corporate carbon establishment, and you can tell yourselves that everything’s going to be A-OK, but I can assure you, it is not. And I pray there’s somebody watching this video in about twenty years because all four of you are going to look very, very fucking stupid.

The legacy of unions that kept African Americans, Latinos, Chinese, and others out of factory work—redlining, exclusionary immigration policies, the looting of Mexicans' land during the Mexican-American War, deportations of Mexicans during economic downturns—all created a gap that we are still trying to close. In a country where Black Americans have been viewed as 'biologically inferior,' Mexicans as 'an ignorant "hybrid race,"' and Chinese immigrants as the 'ideal human mule,' there is far from a fair chance to access the same economic opportunities as white people.

White supremacy is persistent, but so are we.

We are finally seeing that success doesn't have to happen outside our community or in spite of our heritage. We are rejecting the notion that success is found in whiteness because that kind of thinking has never led us anywhere good. The antidote for the poison of the oppressor is to embrace our brownness, because it is our culture that is propelling us.

We learn that the United States is the pinnacle of democracy in the world, but how can freedom be made perfect when it was built upon the genocide of Indigenous people, the enslavement of Black people, and the colonization of Mexicans?

We cannot make ourselves or allow others to make us small so we can fit in the minds and hearts of white people. America might never love us back, so we must love ourselves.

...my racial identity is a concept that escapes intellectual conversations about race. My personal experiences contradict the idea that Latino is only an ethnicity and not a race. But suggesting that Latino should be a race confounds the situation even more, because we are all so different and experience the world differently, though the same could be said of any other racial group. When others state, 'Latino is not a race, it's an ethnicity,' they ignore that not all Latinos have the same ethnicity, either. And though we don't all share the same ethnicity, the exact language, religion, customs, culture, food, and so forth, and though we are not the only ethnic group in America, we are the only people who are singled out by our ethnicity.

...lies...drive immigrants, and people of color...to change who we are in order to make us palatable, or at least tolerable, to white America. I didn't find freedom in assimilation because there is no freedom in racist ideas. Assimilation requires that the story we tell about the United States and about white people is an uplifting, inspiring, sugarcoated version of the facts, in which the whip, guns, and racist motives must remain hidden. But it was the truth about this country, the knowledge of its ugly dirty secrets, that set me free.

Extingir el misteri de milers de descobriments d'espècies desconegudes. Convertir els amagatalls d'un bosc en una planura de monocultiu. Aniquilar milers de futurs d'infants, amb les seves vides asfixiades per l'avarícia d'uns pocs. Estem davant la fi de la bellesa.

The purpose of the Adizes Method is to achieve the process of management described in this book. People participate on subjects which either affect them or to which they have something to contribute. Via synerteams and the POCs, they can change whatever can and needs to be changed. And the structured, disciplined decision-making process of the Adizes Method enables people to feel responsible for the decisions that are made cooperatively.

MALVIATGE! Un déu menor, exigent i mel·liflu, et té sotmès i la vida et transcorre entre sobtats aürts de la memòria i un cansament profund com un estigma. Secretament et contes mil facècies i molt sovint et buides les butxaques frisós i absent, amb por de retrobar-te. On són les veus i els gestos i les formes? On és l'enuig i el crit i les mirades? Se't fa de nit i no tens cap resposta; se't fa de nit i penses moltes coses, aviciat a destriar figures quan és ben fosc i el déu menor reposa. Odies aquest pou mort i l'estranya solemnitat de pedra i de crepuscle, odies aquest temps que et mig sustenta, i t'odies a tu, ninot grotesc, endeutat amb algú que, a poc a poc, et converteix per mofa en una mena de sorprenent i grotesc saltimbanqui.

Me'n vaig per sempre, però tornaré. Discretament aposto pel futur, discretament, perquè me'n queda poc.

Vida secreta Només allò que és íntim sobreviu i, a poc a poc, es converteix en l’àmbit en què, cansat, reposo del desori de cada dia. Jo i els meus records salvats curosament de l’escomesa d’una vida viscuda com qui fa camí amb el vent de cara i no se sent gairebé mai compromès amb el ritme que li dicten els deures i les modes. Només l’imaginari converteix el fer i desfer en una altra lucidesa agosarada i tràgica. Després, tot el que quedi escrit a les parets dels sentits balbs serà vida secreta, l’única que em pertany i que puc sempre contemplar, temerari i desimbolt, com qui s’inventa una nova memòria.

A precari Des d’un ponent eixut, contradictori. Tot el que tinc és poc per redreçar dignament la malmesa singladura. Tampoc no em sobra temps. I, això no obstant, els versos pel seu compte bescanvien silencis per paraules i exigeixen un alt tribut de vida. No puc, doncs, reposar ni vull fer-ho. Més m’estimo veure’m entrar lentament al recinte que jo mateix he anat configurant i seure i esperar fins que algú em cridi des d’un ponent contradictori.

Elogi de l’enyor Posem que el fil de plata d’un afany et porti al cor del temps —si el temps té cor. Què faràs aleshores? Assajar tal volta de descriure l’inefable, o quedar embadocat davant d’aquell joc de miralls que ningú no s’explica? Quin ganivet de doble tall, el risc, que ningú no sap bé per on s’empunya! Més val que et facis ombra amb la teva ombra mentre desxifres el perfil de cada solc de la pell, l’enigma sorprenent, de tan familiar, de les arrugues i, a poc a poc, construeixes un lúdic retrat de tu mateix que t’acompanyi.

Tinc ancorades a no sé quin port les barques del retorn, i m’avindria potser a desarborar-ne tots els pals a canvi de no res, perquè ara ja no em sedueix intensament cap ruta i em fa falta ben poc per sobreviure.

Paròdia Era plaent el viatge, i alegre; però de sobte varen bufar vents no gaire favorables i el vaixell, segurament poc ben patronejat, va anar durant un temps a la deriva i al capdavall, vençut, es va enfonsar. Amb restes del naufragi, tanmateix, m’he fet un baluard i ara em defenso tan bé com puc i sé dels vents terrals que tampoc solen ser gaire propicis. D’aquest joc de renúncies i fracassos jo i molts altres com jo en diem viure. Pel que he vist i llegit, últimament passen força sovint aquestes coses.

La lógica del amor no es la de saberse apreciado, sino que se lo deje correr por las paredes y el patio, como un perro que recibe a su dueño

No creguis que em contradic: hem fet passar fam als altres i hem tingut els diners de tothom ben estrets dins el nostre puny. Sabem molt, llavors. I per saber molt has de saber poc i amb una convicció pètria, baldament per defora semblis una coca bamba, no ho oblidis: pots perdre l’esposa, déu , el llegir i escriure, però si la teva butxaca rebenta de bitllets tronaran les dones, els capellans, i no necessitaràs llegir ni escriure per fer-te respectar. Aquests que critiquen el turisme són imbècils: si no venem l’illa, ¿d’on traurem els diners?

No, Sonja, non è quello!” egli rispose, sollevando d’un tratto il capo, come se un improvviso nuovo giro di pensieri lo avesse colpito e di nuovo eccitato, “non è quello! Ma piuttosto… supponi (sì! così infatti è meglio!) supponi che io sia egoista, invidioso, malvagio, abietto, vendicativo, e… magari anche incline alla pazzia. (Tutto questo insieme! Della pazzia si parlava già prima, me n’ero accorto!) Dunque ti ho detto poc’anzi che non potevo mantenermi all’università. Ma sai tu che forse lo potevo anche? Mia madre mi avrebbe mandato di che pagare quel che occorreva, e quanto alle scarpe, ai vestiti e al pane, avrei provveduto col mio lavoro, di sicuro! Lezioni se ne presentavano; mi si offriva mezzo rublo per ciascuna. Lavora pure Razumichin! Ma io m’incattivii e non volli. Per l’appunto mi incattivii (ecco una bella parola!) Allora, come un ragno, mi ficcai nel mio cantuccio. Tu sei stata nel mio canile, hai veduto… E sai, Sonja, che i soffitti bassi e le camere strette opprimono l’anima e l’intelligenza? Oh, quanto odiavo quel canile! E tuttavia non ne volevo uscire. Apposta non lo volevo! Per interi giorni non ne uscivo e non volevo lavorare, e non volevo neppur mangiare, stavo sempre disteso. Se Nastas’ja me ne portava, mangiavo; se non me ne portava, la giornata passava così; apposta, per rabbia, non ne chiedevo! Di notte non avevo lume, stavo coricato al buio, non volevo lavorare per comprarmi delle candele! Bisognava studiare e io avevo venduto tutti i libri; e sulla mia tavola, sugli appunti e sui quaderni, c’è anche adesso un dito di polvere. Preferivo stare sdraiato e pensare. E pensavo sempre. E facevo sempre certi sogni, una quantità di sogni strani, non è il caso di dir quali! Solo che allora cominciò anche a sembrarmi che… No, non è così! Di nuovo non racconto bene! vedi, allora mi domandavo sempre: perché sono così stupido? Perché, se sono stupidi gli altri, ed io so di sicuro che sono stupidi, non cerco di essere più intelligente di loro?

El cor li bategava contra la post del pit com un ocell esverat. Potser sabia que li quedava poc temps; potser estava decidit a fer tots els batecs d'una vida abans que li toqués aturar-se.

A poc a poc, molt a poc a poc, es va incorporar, i en el moment de fer-ho es va sentir més viu i més conscient que mai del seu cos ple de vida. ¿Com era que no s'havia adonat mai del miracle que era la seva persona, cervell i múscul i cor palpitant?

El sol penjava damunt del cèrcol obscur com una amenaça. A mida que s'hi atansava anava percebent l'olor de la brutícia i de les pedres escalfades per aquell sol eixut i fatigat. Se sentien pocs sorolls, i quan hi era a la vora tot fou silenci. Els qui s'atansaven al camp eren familiars que hi acudien sols o de dos en dos, capcots, tristos amb la desesperació resignada dels vençuts.

A la vida hi ha poc espai per als xiuxiueigs.

Life was a swirl of mysteries, each one waiting to be plucked up and explored, but not necessarily solved. As the weight of responsibility bore down on a person, it could feel like a long list of chores leading up to the final one - figuring out how to die with dignity. But Quincy’s interpretation of his surroundings seemed a truer representation of life’s meaning, or rather, the lack of meaning other than to dazzle and delight and befuddle from cradle to grave.

Was happiness (which was perhaps achieved not by getting what you wanted, but rather, by obtaining what you didn’t know you wished for until it was in hand) a hologram that would continually change appearance with the slightest shift of perspective? Or maybe happiness by definition was a temporary state of being recognizable only in hindsight. It was impossible to catch what always managed to be overrun and end up in the rear view mirror.

It was almost as if she had willed him into existence, into standing before her at the precise moment she was willing to accommodate him, arriving not a minute too early or too late.

On occasion he would think back to the fiercest passion it had been his pleasure to experience and reflect on what might have been. He would look upon the woman who occupied the opposite half of his bed and feel his life had not quite lived up to the promise of another day. These moments would be mercifully brief, or so he hoped.

His fierce appreciation of female beauty, the unrelenting desire he felt for their company, the pleasure he both derived and sought to give, had led him in and out of quite a few bedroom doors.

Most people surrendered fairy tale hopes in exchange for cookie cutter lives

Nothing felt better to him than the act of waiting for her. As long as he believed it wasn’t in vain, he was able to justify his presence.

...the locale did not make him think of her, nor did most things. He felt no negativity about the time they had spent together, but simply did not dwell on it much. She had been a seat filler, memorable as the smiling face of a beautiful girl in the window of a passing train, inspiring a fleeting moment of joy and promise, immediately forgotten with the opening of that day’s newspaper.

...forever meant different things to people at different times. They could imagine what infinity looked and felt like as much as they wanted, but could never truly grasp its meaning nor bear its full weight.

»Però realment voleu renunciar a qui sou? Sé que aquesta herència té els seus punts febles, però també en te molts de positius. Aprecieu detalls que passen inadvertits per altres, podeu ser capaces de sentir sensacions úniques vívidament, alterar a voluntat el vostre entorn, i se us retorna el poder que la societat li ha pres a les dones. »I si bé us han fet creure tota la vida que és un do de pocs, penseu que hi ha qui diu que tots tenim aquestes habilitats, només que uns tenen més facilitat que altres per aprendre-les. És com tirar amb arc, o brandar una espasa. Per més que hagin dit tota la vida que una dona no pot fer-ho, no és veritat que no la pugui subjectar amb les mans, ni fer-la anar en combat si pràctica. Així que encara amb més motiu, deixareu escapar aquesta facilitat que us dona avantatge en la vida? Ja us han pres prou poder, deixareu escapar el que ara se us dona?

Les feministes negres sempre han subratllat que la lluita no pot dirigir-se únicament contra el patriarcat, com diuen les feministes blanques. Tampoc poc centrar-se únicament en la lluita de classes, com diuen les socialistes. No pot abordar tan sols el racisme i l'imperialisme, com diuen les negres radicals. I tampoc pot combatre només l'ecocidi, com diuen les activistes ecologistes.

I knew this floor plan. I’d never been here before, but I knew every room. “Daniel,” I said and looked to him with tears in my eyes. “Is this our house?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, pressed his lips together, and nodded, pleased.

If you think about how many magical Negro, Native American, or wise Asian mentor tropes you’ve watched in movies over the years, it’s easy to understand why so many white folks have been brainwashed into believing that POC exist to support their growth and evolution. The utter failure to comprehend that gaining respect and validation from white folks is not a ubiquitous goal for folks of color is exhausting.

To him [Papa], the written word could act as an invitation to free thought and the broader world, and nowhere was that more true than in the dawn of the printed word, where — for the first time — that invitation could be made to the masses instead of a select few. (4)

The etchings are remarkable. As the Pierpont Morgan Library will be if I am placed in the position of librarian. (25)

In the context of metrics, charlatans always win, because they don't get distracted by trying for actual results.

The very best research has no CVE, demands no patch, and has no direct relation to anything from your grandmother’s credit card number to your server’s shadow file. The very best research is that which teaches you something new about the mechanism by which a machine functions. It teaches you how to build something, how to break something, or how to take something apart, but most of all it teaches you how the hell that thing really works. So to hell with the target and to hell with the reporters.

«Feia tants dies, mesos, que no sentia l’impuls d’escriure, d’escriure literàriament alguna cosa digne de ser llegida, que segurament no s’hi hauria agafat si no hagués estat per la pluja. La pluja l’havia inspirat mil vegades des de l’adolescència, i al llarg de gairebé quaranta anys fins el dia d’avui, però feia tants dies, mesos, que l’impuls no l’agafava pels pebrots i el llençava a l’abisme d’omplir de lletres la pantalla blanca i buida, que quan per fi es va decidir, no sabia on agafar-se. La novel·la inacabada de torn, per no parlar de les que feia anys que dormien el son sord dels avortaments, li semblava massa enrevessada per a aquella engruna d’inspiració filla d’un ruixat: es passaria una hora rellegint cabdellets, una altra perfilant l’agulla, i perdria el fil abans de lligar la primera puntada. Potser podia repassar un dels darrers contes, que són fàcils d’entallar però sovint costa acabar de cosir, tot i que fins i tot això li resultava remot, com l’eco de una veu que ja no sentia seva. D’altra banda, devia tenir mig centenar de contes polits i a punt d’editar que també dormien als llimbs, probablement per sempre. Li constava que la literatura, o més ben dit l’esforç narratiu creatiu, li havia salvat la vida. Li havia justificat gairebé quatre dècades de respirar i fer la viu-viu, esperant sempre que al capdavall ell, ell com a individu més enllà de cap altra persona, hi descobrís un sentit genuí, transcendent, que li compensés poc o molt totes les hores, esperances, il·lusions i etcèteres que ja a l’adolescència i sense ser-ne gaire conscient havia dipositat en la màgia, sovint desagraïda per no dir traïdora, de la creació literària». · Les muses - Jordi Cussà

«Feia tants dies, mesos, que no sentia l’impuls d’escriure, d’escriure literàriament alguna cosa digne de ser llegida, que segurament no s’hi hauria agafat si no hagués estat per la pluja. La pluja l’havia inspirat mil vegades des de l’adolescència, i al llarg de gairebé quaranta anys fins el dia d’avui, però feia tants dies, mesos, que l’impuls no l’agafava pels pebrots i el llençava a l’abisme d’omplir de lletres la pantalla blanca i buida, que quan per fi es va decidir, no sabia on agafar-se. La novel·la inacabada de torn, per no parlar de les que feia anys que dormien el son sord dels avortaments, li semblava massa enrevessada per a aquella engruna d’inspiració filla d’un ruixat: es passaria una hora rellegint cabdellets, una altra perfilant l’agulla, i perdria el fil abans de lligar la primera puntada. Potser podia repassar un dels darrers contes, que són fàcils d’entallar però sovint costa acabar de cosir, tot i que fins i tot això li resultava remot, com l’eco de una veu que ja no sentia seva. D’altra banda, devia tenir mig centenar de contes polits i a punt d’editar que també dormien als llimbs, probablement per sempre. Li constava que la literatura, o més ben dit l’esforç narratiu creatiu, li havia salvat la vida. Li havia justificat gairebé quatre dècades de respirar i fer la viu-viu, esperant sempre que al capdavall ell, ell com a individu més enllà de cap altra persona, hi descobrís un sentit genuí, transcendent, que li compensés poc o molt totes les hores, esperances, il·lusions i etcèteres que ja a l’adolescència i sense ser-ne gaire conscient havia dipositat en la màgia, sovint desagraïda per no dir traïdora, de la creació literària». · Les muses - Jordi Cussà Balaguer