Rafa Quotes

You believe what he's saying - that they're demons?" Simon nods. "Like, from hell?'" "No," Rafa says, "from Comic-Con." He shakes his head. "Yes, from hell.

Calm down," Rafa says. "Yeah," I say, "because you're an expert at patience." "Which is why I look to you to set the example." "Oh, fuck off.

I hear you've been with every Rephaite in a skirt.' Crap. Where did that come from? 'Who told you that?' HIs smile shifts into something less amused. 'Daniel. Who else? The prick.' 'Is he a liar?' Rafa leans against the pale wall. 'I haven't been with everyone.' 'What about Taya?' 'Hell, no. I'm no monk, but I have standards.' I wonder what else Daniel was wrong about. 'What about me?' Rafa's teasing smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'You had standards too.

We're quiet for a moment. And then: 'Why did you call me Matt?' 'It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that I know you, I realise I should have called that character Dick.' He laughs, and then the couch shakes. 'Honestly, Gabe, I forgot you could be this much fun.

I know things are messy with us, but do you really think I could just walk away from you?" This time he doesn't look away. "Do you really think I'd let you?

How can you be so sure?" I badly want to believe him, but this is Rafa. The guy who's all action and no plan. His smile is tired, knowing. An echo of a shared past I don't remember. "Because I'm not smart enough to give up, and you don't know how to.

You must be brave,” says Rafa. “One Texano against three Vallecanos.” “Bravery and stupidity are sometimes interchangeable.” Rafa lights up. “Yes! But fear brings dimension to our lives. Without fear we will never meet courage

People sometimes exaggerate this business of humility. It’s a question simply of knowing who you are, where you are, and that the world will continue exactly as it is without you.

I have no sense of humor about losing

Losing is not my enemy...fear of losing is my enemy

However great your dedication, you never win anything on your own

Some friendships are born of commonality. Others of proximity. And some friendships, often the unlikely ones, are born of survival. Rafa and his friend are comrades of hardship. They refuse to speak of the boys’ home in Barcelona. It was not a “home.” It was a hellhole, a slaughterhouse of souls. The “brothers” and “matrons” who ran the institution took pleasure in the humiliation of children. The mere memory is poison.

I straighten and stretch my neck side to side. ‘I really need to hit something.’ Rafa’s mouth quirks. ‘I know what you need.’ ‘In your dreams.’ I know where this is going: it’s been the same banter for about five decades now. Usually he saves it for an audience. ‘In my dreams, Gabe, you end up slick with sweat and moaning.’ ‘I have food poisoning?’ He laughs, a beer halfway to his lips. Condensation drips from the bottle. He’s completely at ease here: three-quarter cargoes, frayed t-shirt, bare feet. ‘I’m just saying that if you need distracting, I’m your man.’ ‘If I wanted to go places everyone else has been, Rafa, I’d take a trip to Disneyland.’ He leans in closer. ‘Yeah, but don’t you want to know why everyone loves Space Mountain?

I knew this was still here somewhere." He pulls a knife from the back of the drawer, takes it out of its sheath and shines the torch on it. I move closer until our shoulders touch. "That's beautiful," I whisper. "You gave this to me." I take the knife. It's heavier than I expect. "Please, tell me it was a gift and not something I stabbed you with.

Those last months. No way of wrapping it pretty or pretending otherwise: Rafa was dying. By then it was only me and Mami taking care of him and we didn't know what the fuck to do, what the fuck to say. So we just said nothing. My mom wasn't the effusive type anyway, had one of those event-horizon personalities-shit just fell into her and you never really knew how she felt about it. She just seemed to take it, never gave anything off, not light, not heat.

Rafa blinks, blocking the painful memories, hiding his collapsed heart beneath a smile. “Buenos días, señora. How may I help you?” he asks the customer. “Blood.” “Sí, señora.” Give them their blood. For more than twenty years, Spain has given blood. And sometimes Rafa wonders—what is left to give?

How can you forgive what I did?" "Because I know you. Because I've seen the best and the worst of you. Because of everything we've been through in the last hundred and thirty-nine years and what we've been through since you found me in the bar. God, because I want to move forward." "Yea, but --" "Because I love you, you idiot!

Si falta pasión no se encuentra la victoria

Rafa straightens. ‘'Just let me figure a few things out.’' ‘'Like why you didn’t help me?’' He shrugs, unrepentant. ‘'I thought it was an act. It didn’t cross my mind you wouldn’t fight.’' ‘'If I knew how to fight, Rafa, you wouldn’t still be conscious.’' That brings a quick grin to his face. ‘'See, now that gives me hope all’s not lost. You’re still in there somewhere.’' ‘'Who’s still in here? Who is it you and those psychopaths think I am?’' His smile fades. ‘'You really don’t know.

I have no sense of humor about losing.

The problem nowadays is that children have become too much the center of attention. Their parents, their families, everybody around them feels a need to put them on a pedestal. So much effort is invested in boosting their self-esteem that they are made to feel special in and of themselves, without having done anything.

Humility is the recognition of your limitations, and it is from this understanding, and this understanding alone, that the drive comes to work hard at overcoming them.

Se que cuando mi carrera acabe no seré un hombre feliz y quiero aprovecharla al máximo mientras dure.

Gold is tried by fire and brave men by adversity,” says Rafa.

When Federer has these patches of utter brilliance, the only thing you can do is try and stay calm, wait for the storm to pass. There is not much you can do when the best player in history is seeing the ball as big as a football and hitting it with power, confidence, and laser accuracy.

You and he were never ...you know. You were our best fighters. You bickered all the time, but you brought out the best in each other as warriors. Going into battle to you turned him on more than any woman could.' I give her a dubious look and she laughs.'Maybe a slight exaggeration, but he really did love it.' Her smiles fades.'And you and Jude were inseparable. That's why it made no sense that you would take the opposite side to either one of them - let alone both...It got worse after you and Jude disappeared last year. We thought he'd gone back to the Sanctuary to be with you. And when we heard you'd both dies...Honestly, I though Rafa was going to harm himself. He wouldn't talk to anyone for weeks. He drifted in and out of our operations, and then a few months ago he lost interest completely and stopped answering calls. We only know he was still alive because he's send Zak an occasional text. We he told Zak about the possibility you'd resurfaced there was no doubt he's come looking for you-' A fist bangs on the door. 'Gabe' Rafa barks. 'Your boyfriend's here. Get your arse into gear.' 'Yeah' I get to my feet. 'I'm the wind beneath his wings.

We’re not doing that, and you know it.” He doesn’t speak again I lean closer, lower my voice. “I know things are messy with us, but do you really think I could just walk away from you?” This time he doesn’t look away. “Do you really think I’d let you?

The cemetery is full of bones. At first Rafa was afraid of them. Most are sealed in coffins, but there are mass pits with the poor and the older pits with the Protestants. The cemetery and slaughterhouse require Rafa to face his fear of death. That’s why he endures them. “You see, by facing fear, I am cleansing myself, straining my past of the horror that infects me,” he tells Fuga.

open the Israeli map, and again study the route that Israelis usually take to the coast. So, after descending to the bottom of the valley on Highway 50, one must turn right onto Highway 1, and stay on it for a long time, without turning right or left. I examine the area along Highway 1, which, according to the map, appears to be primarily populated by settlements. The only two visible Palestinian villages are Abu Ghosh and Ein Rafa. I go back and open the map, which depicts Palestine until 1948, and let my eyes wander over it, moving between the names of the many Palestinian villages that were destroyed after the expulsion of their inhabitants that year.

When they reach the fountain, Rafa pumps the long arm, sending water sloshing into a wooden pail held by a shrunken white-haired woman. “Should we carry the bucket for her?” asks Daniel. “She won’t let you. Besides, that woman is stronger than both of us combined,” says Rafa with a laugh.

Steven Gerrard was a regular complainer, not because he was ever left out but because of the strange decisions that Rafa Benítez would sometimes make. The team-sheet would go up, without Xabi Alonso’s name on it. Stevie would go bananas. ‘Why the f*** has he done that?’ Straight to Rafa’s door, bang-bang-bang.

One night, a couple of weeks before school started--they must have though I was asleep--Nilda started telling Rafa about her plans for the future. I think even she knew what was about to happen. Listening to her imagining herself was about the saddest thing you ever heard. How she wanted to get away from her moms and open up a group home for runaway kids. But this one would be real cool, she said. It would be for normal kids who just got problems. She must have loved him because she went on and on. Plenty of people talk about having a flow, but that night I really heard one, something that was unbroken, that fought itself and worked together all at once. Rafa didn't say nothing. Maybe he had his hands in her hair or maybe he was just like, fuck you. When she finished, he didn't even say wow. I wanted to kill myself with embarrassment. About a half hour later she got up and dressed. She couldn't see me or she would have known that I thought she was beautiful. She stepped into her pants and pulled them up in one motion, sucked in her stomach while she buttoned them. I'll see you later, she said. Yeah, he said.

We were about to hit the door when she returned, panting, an envelope of cold around her. Where did you go? I asked. I went for a walk. She dropped her coat at the door; her face was red from the cold and she was breathing deeply, as if she’d sprinted the last thirty steps. Where? Just around the corner. Why the hell did you do that? She started to cry, and when Rafa put his hand on her waist, she slapped it away. We went back to our room. I think she’s losing it, I said. She’s just lonely, Rafa said.

During a match, you are in a permanent battle to fight back your everyday vulnerabilities, bottle up your human feelings. It’s a kind of self-hypnosis, a game you play, with deadly seriousness, to disguise your own weaknesses from yourself, as well as from your rival.

All his fears—be they of the dark, of thunderstorms, of the sea, or of the disastrous disruption of his family life—obey a compelling need. “He is a person who needs to be in control of everything,” Pérez says, “but since this is impossible, he invests all he has in controlling the one part of his life over which he has most command, Rafa the tennis player.

Clark Kent and Superman

Hidup lah untuk aku, kenang lah aku dan hidup lah semua kenangan yang ada bersama aku" - RAFA

Aku yakin kamu masih bisa merasakan kehadiran aku.. Kamu nggak perlu melihat aku ada di mana tapi kamu bisa merasakannya aku ada nggak pernah jauh dari kamu.." - Rafa

Aku bener - bener cinta sama kamu. Di saat Hal tersulit bagiku adalah berpisah dari kamu" - Rafa

Cinta itu adalah menciptakan berjuta alasan hanya untuk membuat 1 hal yang bisa membuat orang yang di cintai tersenyum bahagia" - Rafa

If he hadn’t made me play without water that day, if he hadn’t singled me out for especially harsh treatment when I was in that group of little kids learning the game, if I hadn’t cried as I did at the injustice and abuse he heaped on me, maybe I would not be the player I am today. He always stressed the importance of endurance. “Endure, put up with whatever comes your way, learn to overcome weakness and pain, push yourself to breaking point but never cave in. If you don’t learn that lesson, you’ll never succeed as an elite athlete”: that was what he taught me.

Jika memang ini akhir dari takdirku lakukanlah satu hal untuk ku. Hiduplah untuk aku, Bahagialah untuk aku, Dan kenanglah semua yang pernah ada diantara kita untuk Aku" (Isi surat Rafa untuk Yasmin)

He has always been obedient, which is a sign of intelligence in a child because it shows you understand that your elders know better than you, that you respect their superior experience of the world.

Do others in Spain have ghosts in the attic of their mind? Do they try to face them as he does? The door to the attic creaks constantly, beckoning Rafa with a long, crooked finger back to his childhood. Back to the war.

aku selalu ada di hati kamu, aku selalu ada di dekat kamu sebelum kamu minta dan aku juga bisa ngerasain apa yang kamu rasain, aku akan selalu ada di deket kamu tapi yang pasti aku akan selalu ada di sini untuk kamu” - Rafa

The Rafa Nadal the world saw as he stormed onto the Centre Court lawn for the start of the 2008 Wimbledon final was a warrior, eyes glazed in murderous concentration, clutching his racquet like a Viking his axe. A glance at Federer revealed a striking contrast in styles: the younger player in sleeveless shirt and pirate’s pantaloons, the older one in a cream, gold-embossed cardigan and classic Fred Perry shirt; one playing the part of the street-fighting underdog, the other suave and effortlessly superior.

I learned that you always have to hang in there, that however remote your chances of winning might seem, you have to push yourself to the very limit of your abilities and try your luck. That day in Melbourne I saw, more clearly than ever before, that the key to this game resides in the mind, and if the mind is clear and strong, you can overcome almost any obstacle, including pain. Mind can triumph over matter.

The rest of the family looked on with a bemusement that, in the case of Rafa’s mother, occasionally gave way to anger. His father, Sebastián, had his misgivings. His uncle Rafael wondered sometimes whether Toni was pushing his nephew too hard. His godfather, his mother’s brother, Juan, went so far as to say that what Toni was doing to the child amounted to “mental cruelty.” But Toni was hard on Rafa because he knew Rafa could take it and would eventually thrive. He would not have applied the same principles, he insists, with a weaker child. The sense that perhaps he might have been right was what stopped the more doubtful members of his family from outright rebellion. One who did not doubt Toni was Miguel Ángel, the professional football player. Another disciple of the endurance principle, in which he believes with almost as much reverence as Toni himself, Miguel Ángel says that success for the elite sportsman rests on the capacity “to suffer,” even to enjoy suffering. “It means learning to accept that if you have to train two hours, you train two hours; if you have to train five, you train five; if you have to repeat an exercise fifty thousand times, you do it. That’s what separates the champions from the merely talented. And it’s all directly related to the winners’ mentality; at the same time as you are demonstrating endurance, your head becomes stronger.

Rafa was seen at the karaoke bar performing a love song at a pining waitress. Rafa was seen at the billiards on 207th instructing a pretty young thing by pawing her too-large ass. Rafa was seen entering the apartment of the widow in 5D, and he emerged an hour later without his toolbox.

Before we even swung onto 516 Nilda was in my brother's lap and he had his hand so far up her skirt it looked like he was performing a surgical procedure. When we were getting off the bus Rafa pulled me aside and held his hand in front of my nose. Smell this, he said. This is what's wrong with women.

In August Rafa quit his job at the carpet factory—I’m too fucking tired, he complained, and some mornings his leg bones hurt so much he couldn’t get out of bed right away. The Romans used to shatter these with iron clubs, I told him while I massaged his shins. The pain would kill you instantly. Great, he said. Cheer me up some more, you fucking bastard.

Miguel Ángel dice que el éxito del deportista de élite se basa en su capacidad «para sufrir», incluso para disfrutar sufriendo.

reproachful—I’ve

I ran the risk of being mobbed for autographs. This is an occupational hazard that I accept and I try to take it with good grace. I can’t say “no” to people who ask me for my signature, even to the rude ones who just stick a piece of paper in front of me and don’t even say “please.” I’ll sign for them too, but what they won’t get from me is a smile. So going to the supermarket in Wimbledon, while an enjoyable distraction from the tension of competition, does have its pressures. The only place where I can go shopping in peace—where I can do anything like a normal person—is my home town of Manacor.

Estar concentrado significa hacer en todo momento lo que sabes que tienes que hacer, no cambiar nunca tu plan, a menos que las circunstancias del peloteo o del juego cambien de un modo tan excepcional que justifiquen la aparición de una sorpresa. Pero en términos generales significa disciplina, significa contenerte cuando surge la tentación de jugártela. Luchar contra esa tentación significa tener la impaciencia o la frustración bajo control.

Aku tau diriku lebih dari siapapun, Aku tau hati aku dan aku tau aku gak akan mampu, aku gak akan pernah Mampu, Cinta itu adalah saat aku gak bisa melepaskan pandanganku dari kamu. Meskipun aku tau kamu gak akan pernah memandang kembali ke arahku, Kamu gak pernah tau, setiap saat aku selalu berusaha meyakini diri aku sendiri kalau aku udah gak mencintai kamu lagi, aku gak merindukan kamu, dan suatu saat aku harap, aku bisa percaya itu” - Rafa

Hi ha ciutats secundàries que ja no són les ames del seu destí però amaguen en els seus carrers el tresor d’un gegant vençut. València és una d’elles. Amb el pas del temps el desdeny propi i alié les reduïx a tòpic. El tòpic preval com a mantra i sosté interpretacions fal·laces. Hi ha una resposta majoritària, la de propagar frases fetes. Era i és tan comú que mai va ser la meua. Les ruïnes no eren un decorat de ficció. El veïnat fugia, callava, mirava cap a un altre costat. Contràriament, les pedres exhalaven l’empremta d’una derrota per incompareixença.

Shetani anaogopa viumbe saba tu hapa duniani na huko mbinguni ukimwondoa Mungu, ambaye anaogopwa na kila kiumbe: Malaika Mikaeli, Malaika Gabrieli, Malaika Rafaeli, Malaika Urieli, Malaika Selafieli, Malaika Ragueli, na Malaika Barakieli, ambao ni malaika wakuu; na tukio ambalo Shetani analiogopa zaidi ni tukio la kurudi kwa Yesu kwa mara ya pili ambalo limekaribia sana, na atafanya kila atakachoweza kabla ya tukio hilo kuchukua roho zetu. Lengo la Shetani ni kuua kila mtu duniani kumkomoa Mungu na malaika wakuu na kutupeleka kuzimu. Lakini atashindwa kwa jina la Yesu.

Evlilikte olur böyle şeyler. Bir süre sonra sözcüklerin yerini başka şeyler alır. Sözcükleri tozlanmasın diye özenle paketleyerek rafa kaldırma sanatıdır bir anlamda evlilik. Her evlilik zamanla, detaylarda az çok farklı, ama temelde aynı kurallara bağlı o gizli dil hüküm sürmeye başlar. Çoğun kinle ve yerine getirilememiş isteklerin yanık kokusunun verdiği sancılı sızılarla beslenen; kendine özgü bakış, iç çekiş, saçı arkaya atış, yarım gülüş, kaş kaldırış, göz deviriş, hızla bacak sallayış, uzaklara manidar bakışlarla dalış ve benzeri değişik anlamları bünyesinde barındıran hareketlerin toplamıdır bu gizli dil.

And then, as I was bouncing the ball up and down on the grass, just about to wind up my body to serve, the umpire cut in. “Time violation: warning, Mr. Nadal.” I had apparently spent too long between points, gone over the legal limit of twenty seconds before I served—a rule that is enforced only rarely. But it’s a dangerous rule. Because once you’ve received that first warning, any subsequent violations lead to the deduction of points. My concentration had been put to the test. I could have made a scene. The crowd, I could tell, shared my indignation. But I knew, without having to give it a second thought, that to let my feelings show would do me no good. I’d risk losing that precious asset, my concentration. Besides, the momentum was with me and I was two points away from winning the second set. I put the umpire’s interruption immediately out of my mind and won the point with a terrific and, for me, very unusual shot.

That’s why just about every top professional athlete has been laid low by injury, sometimes a career-ending injury. There was a moment in my career when I seriously wondered whether I’d be able to continue competing at the top level. I play through pain much of the time, but I think all elite sports people do. All except Federer, at any rate. I’ve had to push and mold my body to adapt it to cope with the repetitive muscular stress that tennis forces on you, but he just seems to have been born to play the game. His physique—his DNA—seems perfectly adapted to tennis, rendering him immune to the injuries the rest of us are doomed to put up with.

And of one thing I have no doubt: the more you train, the better your feeling. Tennis is, more than most sports, a sport of the mind; it is the player who has those good sensations on the most days, who manages to isolate himself best from his fears and from the ups and downs in morale a match inevitably brings, who ends up being world number one.

Toni, himself not immune to the family traumas, had been sympathetic, for the most part. But now, as my annus horribilis approached its end, he said that enough was enough. It was time to buck up and return to work. “There are a lot of people who have problems in life but keep going,” he said. “What makes you so special that you should be the exception?

You don’t understand,” my dad said. “They stop you.” “Who? What are you talking about?” my mom asked. “That’s why I was being cautious.” “Who stops you?” “The police. If you’re white, or maybe Oriental, they let you drive however you want. But if you’re not, they stop you.” “Who told you that?” “The guys at the diner. That’s what they say. If you’re black or if you’re brown, they automatically think you’ve done something wrong.” “Rafa, that’s ridiculous. We’ve lived here for fifteen years. We’re citizens.” “The police don’t know that by looking at us. They see a brown face through the windshield and boom! Sirens!” My mom shook her head. “That’s what that was about?” “I didn’t want to give them reason to stop me.” “You were driving like a blind man, Rafa. That will give them reason to stop you.” “Everybody else just has to obey the law. We have to obey it twice as well.” “But that doesn’t mean you have to go twice as slow as everybody else!” The light turned green and my dad brought the car out of first. We cruised under the overpass, a shadow draping over the car like a blanket. “Next time, just try to blend in with everyone else and you’ll be fine,” my mom offered. “The way of the world,” my dad said. “What?” my mom asked as we emerged back into the sunlight. “Just trying to blend in. That’s the way of the world.” “Well, that’s the way of America, at least,” my mom said.

Vaig fugir de tu, però no de la meua vida amb tu. La meua vida amb tu explica la meua vida posterior. És una cosa que vaig aprendre quan vaig deixar-te i tots s’obstinaven en què t’oblidara. No vaig fer-ho mai. Oblidar és mesquí. Si vaig assolir la serenitat va ser perquè vaig aprendre a ubicart-te amb precisió. També allò, per dolorós que fora, em va fer més persona.

Aquella deixadesa institucionalitzada era la bandera de les classes populars, la seua absència de gust pel debat, la criminalització de tot discurs crític i intel·lectual. Aquella aversió no permetia aprofundir ni per descomptat alimentar detalls metafísics que sostingueren la ciutat en un nivell hermenèuticament superior. Tot pegava voltes als tòpics: l’himne, la paella, les falles, la ressaca del conflicte idiomàtic, la misèria moral que emanava de les restes del franquisme. La València literària era una mòmia dissecada, un manual de trinxeres. La il·lustració havia passat de puntetes per davant dels nostres nassos, deixant-nos una ciutat arrasada i servil que es delectava en el seu espill; una ciutat cegada per la llum, la força de les aparences, l’instint de felicitat gregària. Al final aplegava a una conclusió: aquella màscara era una altra variant suïcida de la melancolia.

So to avoid the twin dangers of nostalgia and despairing bitterness, I'll just say that in Cartagena we'd spend a whole month of happiness, and sometimes even a month and a half, or even longer, going out in Uncle Rafa's motorboat, La Fiorella, to Bocachica to collect seashells and eat fried fish with plantain chips and cassava, and to the Rosary Islands, where I tried lobster, or to the beach at Bocagrande, or walking to the pool at the Caribe Hotel, until we were mildly burned on our shoulders, which after a few days started peeling and turned freckly forever, or playing football with my cousins, in the little park opposite Bocagrande Church, or tennis in the Cartagena Club or ping-pong in their house, or going for bike rides, or swimming under the little nameless waterfalls along the coast, or making the most of the rain and the drowsiness of siesta time to read the complete works of Agatha Christie or the fascinating novels of Ayn Rand (I remember confusing the antics of the architect protagonist of The Fountainhead with those of my uncle Rafael), or Pearl S. Buck's interminable sagas, in cool hammocks strung up in the shade on the terrace of the house, with a view of the sea, drinking Kola Roman, eating Chinese empanadas on Sundays, coconut rice with red snapper on Mondays, Syrian-Lebanese kibbeh on Wednesdays, sirloin steak on Fridays and, my favourite, egg arepas on Saturday mornings, piping hot and brought fresh from a nearby village, Luruaco, where they had the best recipe.

Sözcükleri tozlanmasın diye özenle paketleyerek rafa kaldırma sanatıdır bir anlamda evlilik.

Justifica tus propias limitaciones y jamás las superarás. En cambio, si te convences de la capacidad que tienes, te planteas una meta y pones los medios y el esfuerzo necesarios, seguro que lo conseguirás.

Antes del Matrimonio EL: ¡Sí!, Por fin… que duro fue esperar. ELLA: ¿Quieres dejarme? EL: ¡No! Ni siquiera lo pienses… ELLA: ¿Tú me amas? EL: Por supuesto, una y otra vez. ELLA: ¿Alguna vez me has sido infiel? EL: ¡No! ¿Cómo te atreves siquiera a preguntar eso? ELLA: ¿Me besarías? EL: En cada oportunidad que tenga… ELLA: ¿Te atreverías a golpearme? EL: ¿Estás loca? No soy ese tipo de persona. Ella: ¿Puedo confiar en ti? EL: Sí. Ella: ¡Mi amor! Después del Matrimonio: Leer lo anterior de abajo hacia arriba!

Hikâyesi bitmek...Okunmuş, son sayfası çevrilmiş bir kitabın rafa geri konması gibi...Böyle kaldı aklımda ölüm.

Haz de cualquier circunstancia una ventaja

Me regocijaba pensando que eso era parte del precio a pagar para quienes estábamos allí. La soledad. Aunque yo no veía en aquello un castigo. Poder aislarme era una bendición

Hace falta tiempo para saber que el tiempo se rige por sus propias reglas

Szóval szerintem nem csak nekem kellene viselni a felelősséget, amiért egy elismerten nevetséges gondolatban hittem. Csak annyit kérek, hogy egyenlően osszuk el a felelősséget. Egy napig azon töprengtem, írok a San Rafael-i újságoknak, és a szerkesztőnek címzett levélben elmondom a történetet; azt ki kell nyomtatniuk. Kötelességük. Végül azonban lemondtam róla. A pokolba az újságokkal. Csak a dilinósok olvassák a szerkesztői leveleket. Az egész világ tele van dilinósokkal. Nyomasztó.

Terrazo: siluetas de sangre contra un paisaje luminoso. De los trillos, de las veredas, de los caminos reales que conducen a donde el bohío prende su ojo negro de angustia sobre los surcos abiertos al dolor y a la esperanza, surgieron estos aguafuertes del terruño. Desde el cogollo más empinado en la guinda de mis recuerdos más puros, dedico el libro a los compadres don Fruto Torres, don Pepe Ramos (El Gato), don Goyito Rosa, don Valé Morrabal, don Rafa Ramírez. Jíbaros de mi tierra que me mostraron ese Puerto Rico trágico, estoico, irreductible. Mi Puerto Rico bagazo, mi Puerto Rico josco, mi Puerto Rico pitirre. Abelardo Díaz Alfaro

«Aguantar —decía—, aprender a superar la debilidad y el dolor, esforzarte hasta el límite sin derrumbarte nunca. Si no aprendes eso, nunca serás un deportista de élite.»

Because I love you, you idiot!’ The sentence hangs in the air. It’s taken us both by surprise. We blink at each other, take a breath. I feel the flush climb my neck, check that I mean it. I do. Not just for who he’s been for the past two weeks, but for our friendship before that. Before we screwed everything up. ‘No you don’t,’ Rafa says. But the guilt and frustration are gone, replaced by something more fragile. ‘Don’t tell me what I do and don’t feel, Rafa.’ He watches me, unreadable. The seconds stretch out. ‘Then say it again.’ I look him the eye. They’re difficult words because they strip me bare. ‘I love you. You idiot.’ Rafa doesn’t speak and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. This quiet intensity is something new. I close the distance until I’m standing between his legs. I don’t touch him. ‘That’s not easy for me to say.’ ‘Because it’s me?’ ‘Because I’ve never said it before, and because I mean it. Rafa, the way I felt about you a few hours ago . . . that hasn’t changed. If I’d told you then, would you have believed it?’ His eyes soften at the memory. ‘Then believe it now.’ I press my hand to his chest, feel his heart thump against my palm through his t-shirt. ‘Do you want to add anything, or am I out on this limb alone?’ He guides me closer, his fingers light on my hips. ‘How I feel about you scares the hell out of me. I’ve got no counter-moves. No defence. And now you remember everything, I’ve lost the upper hand.’ ‘You had the upper hand?’ A short laugh. ‘Apparently not.

The old man smiled at me, dark eyes twinkling over his spectacles. ‘I think God has already sent us angels enough, mon ami. But I shall pray he watch over us this night nevertheless.’ “‘And what’s the point of that, priest?’ “Rafa blinked. ‘What is the point of—’ “‘Praying. Oui.’ “The old man looked at me as if I’d asked the point of breathing. ‘I…’ “‘Two soldiers stand on a field of battle,’ I told him. ‘Both are convinced God is on their side. Both pray to their Lord and Redeemer to smite their enemy low, and to the Mothermaid to protect them from all harm. But somebody’s going to lose. Somebody’s wasting their fucking time. Maybe, just maybe … it’s both of them?’ “The priest frowned. ‘God cannot be said to be on the side of the Dead.’ “‘You’re missing the point, old man. All on earth below and hea’en above is the work of my hand…’ “‘… And all the work of my hand is in accord with my plan.’ “‘You think those refugees we met on the road didn’t pray with everything they had to not lose their homes? You think Lachlunn á Cuinn didn’t pray for his wife and son to stay alive? See, that divine plan shite is what the pulpit-hucksters feed you when things start to go wrong. After they’ve passed around the collection plate, of course. When your crops fail or your cancer spreads or whatever else you’ve begged him for doesn’t come to pass. That’s the solace they’ll offer. It’s God’s will, they’ll tell you. Part of the divine plan. “‘What they don’t point out is, if he has a plan? There’s no sense praying for anything. If His will be done is the golden rule, then God’s going to do what he wants, regardless of how hard you beg him. And imagine, just for a second, the sense of entitlement it takes to ask him for anything in the first place. The fucking ego you’d need to think that this is somehow all for you. What if you ask for something that’s not his will? You want him to alter the course of the divine plan? For you? See, that’s the grift of it all. That’s the genius. You get what you pray for? Huzzah, God fucking loves you. But your prayers go unanswered?’ I snapped my fingers. ‘Just wasn’t part of the plan.

Neresinde kaldığımı unutmayayım diye değil, tam neresinde vazgeçtiğimi hatırlayayım diye sayfayı köşesinden katlayıp rafa kaldırıyorum, yani artık istemiyorum Osman.

—Pues ya estamos todos—exclama Andrés al vernos—. O casi todos. Nicki. Le falta Nicki. La está buscando con la mirada, pero no la encuentra.—Está con Rafa, controlando a la prensa—le digo yo.—¿ Quién?—Ya sabes quién, Andrés.

Szczęśliwie dla naukowców badających miejsce zbrodni, trudno całkowicie spalić ludzkie ciało; nawet po kremacji pozostają fragmenty kości, które później trzeba mechanicznie sproszkować. Z drugiej jednak strony ogień może poważnie uszkodzić nawet najbardziej wytrzymałe kości ludzkiego ciała, takie jak kość udowa i piszczelowa w nodze oraz kość ramienna w ręce. Ogień o stosunkowo niskiej temperaturze nada kościom długim barwę czarną lub brązową, lecz nie naruszy ich struktury. Jednak podczas pożaru będącego wynikiem podpalenia – gdy przestępca użył benzyny lub jakiejś innej substancji łatwopalnej – ogień może osiągnąć temperaturę nawet 1100 stopni Celsjusza; w tak ekstremalnych warunkach kość ulega przemianie chemicznej i strukturalnej. Podobnie jak pozostałe części ciała, kość zawiera węgiel, który w bardzo wysokiej temperaturze po prostu się wypala. Kość, która przetrwa taki proces, nazywana kością kalcynowaną, może zachować swój kształt – tak jak rafa koralowa zachowuje swój pierwotny kształt, nawet gdy wymarły już organizmy, które ją stworzyły – będzie jednak bardzo lekka, szara, poznaczona mnóstwem pęknięć i otworów powstałych pod wpływem wysokiej temperatury i tak krucha, że może rozsypać się w dłoni, a już z pewnością rozsypie się pod naciskiem stopy.

«Esa fuerza mental, esa confianza y ese espíritu guerrero tan excepcionales que tiene son la otra cara de la inseguridad que lo impulsa»,

La vida se compone de infinitos instantes pero pocos sobreviven al olvido. A veces son recuerdos triviales, en ocasiones absurdos, que obstinadamente salen a nuestro encuentro, otros son imprevistos, incluso trágicos y algunos como los de aquella noche, esperados y vividos con la firme convicción de que serán recordados.

Sé que si me las arreglo para seguir jugando al máximo nivel hasta los veintinueve o treinta años, habré tenido mucha suerte y me sentiré contento.

Now the name rang a bell. Long plaid skirts, high-buttoned blouses, and a single cornrow down the middle of her head. Rafa’s lips twitched as he fought a grin. The picture forming in his mind threatened to derail his resolution.

En cuanto a mí, aprendí una gran lección con aquella victoria. Una lección que Toni me había estado taladrando desde hacía años, pero que hasta entonces no había comprendido cuánto era cierta. Aprendí que hay que perseverar siempre, que por muy remotas que parezcan las probabilidades de ganar, hay que pujar hasta el límite de las propias fuerzas y probar suerte. Aquel día en Melbourne me di cuenta, con más claridad que nunca, de que la clave de este deporte se encuentra en la mente; y si se tiene la mente despejada y fuerte, se puede vencer casi cualquier obstáculo, incluido el dolor. La mente pude vencer a la materia.

Vive como si fueras a morir mañana. Aprende como si fueras a vivir siempre. Mahatma Gandhi.

La mayoría de corredores no corren porque quieran vivir más. Lo hacen porque quieren vivir al máximo (Haruki Murakami).

Aquél que tiene un porqué para vivir se puede enfrentar a todos los cómos (Friedrich Nietzsche).

Los japoneses lo llaman «satori», que significa «despertar instantáneo»: de repente, decides algo que cambiará tu vida.

Çok kitap okumayalım çok da kitap basmayalım. Ne yapalım o halde? Yazar kitabın sayfalarını para olarak görmediği, okuyucunun da her kitaba bir defalığına mahsus para vermediği kitaplar rafa ve fikre yerleşmeli önce. Basılan kitapların ya da okunan kitapların değil basılmayan ve okunmayan kitapların istatistiği de çıkarılmalı.

desafío consiste en escalar la cumbre de las propias posibilidades.

At 1–1, on his serve, I smelled blood.

I won. Rafael claimed later that he’d let me win, so I’d be in a better frame of mind for the final, but I don’t believe him. It’s important for me to win, at everything. I have no sense of humor about losing.

I looked at you there, a big, grown-up champion with his arms in the air, and suddenly my mind leapt back in time and I saw an image of a deadly serious, skinny little boy of seven training on a court back home in Manacor.

And then there were Hernán and Rafa, muscular brothers who expressed most of their politics through soccer, moving smoothly back and forth between the two topics as if they were one. The character of other countries came out on the field, they said. The Brazilians presumed, the Uruguayans lacked heart, the more prosperous teams aped European styles, and the proletarian ones had the light footwork that you learn when you play on pitted dirt.

In the classroom of adversity, the syllabus of patience teaches us the profound wisdom of waiting on God.

When the urge to return home comes over me, sleep is no consideration.

I haven’t seen you all weekend,” I say to his back. He turns. “Did you miss me?” I bite down on my tongue. “You did.” He smirks. “Shut up,” I snap. “When you’re ready to admit you couldn’t stand being away from me for four days, come find me.” His eyes glitter as he moves toward the archway. “Wait!” He pauses. “Yes?” “Fine. I missed you. A lot.” “Me too. I considered ditching Nico and Rafa on the second day.