Yanni Quotes

I know that each one of us travels to love alone, alone to faith and to death. I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help. Let me come with you.

When there's a moon the shadows in the house grow larger; invisible hands draw back the curtains, a pallid finger writes forgotten words on dust of the piano...

He looked like a Yanni fan at an Iron Maiden Concert.

All the words are not enough to get anything said.

I glanced back to Yanni to see him smiling at us. "You two can stop being so cute now." "Well, Spencer can," Andrew deadpanned. "I, unfortunately, am cute all the time." I laughed. "It's true. He is.

العالم أغنية عميقة مُغلقة

The distance between death and life is not as great as you imagine.” “Really?” Yannis turned his way. “Then why don’t people come back to Earth after they die?” The stranger smiled. “Why would they want to?

قال لى: لا وقت لى، لا وقت لى أشجار منازل جبال طيور أنهار أضواء فراشة شقراء نافذة مغطاة بستارة صغيرة بيضاء حصان حزين على جسر خشبى صبى بان الذهول على رموش عينيه كل هذا يومىء لى للحظة ثم يتركنى فى منتهى الوحدة أعمى أصم على حافة العالم

… the fisherman’s daughter grinding serenity in her coffee grinder.

ξέρεις, καμιά φορά, θαυμάζοντας, ξεχνάς, ό,τι θαυμάζεις, σου φτάνει ο θαυμασμός σου

هذه الشجرة ظننتها رجلاً. لم أخطئ

Everything great that has ever happened to humanity has begun as a single thought in someone's mind, and if anyone of us is capable of such a thought, then all of us has the same capacity, capability, because we're all the same.

اذا أزعجك الضوء فهو خطأك

أيتها الريح التي عرّتني، ها أنتِ أصبحت ردائي الوحيد

I know that our world is going through a very difficult time right now, but I will never lose my faith in humanity, and our incredible ability to overcome just about anything.

الغسق يهبط والأبواب تغلق وتظل امرأة واحدة بلا جرة في حديقة امرأة من الماء شفافة في ضوء القمر وزهرة في شعرها.

البحر، البحر الكتب لا تجيب عن السؤال والسؤال لا يداوي الجرح. من جرحنا يبدأ البحر.

And look, my brother, we learned to talk very quietly and simply. We understand each other now - there is no need for anything more. And I say tomorrow we will become still simpler; we’ll find those words that take on the same weight in all hearts, on all lips so that we can call figs figs, and a trough a trough, so that others will smile and say: ‘We’re making you a hundred poems an hour’. This is what we want too. Because we do not sing to separate ourselves from people, my brother, we sing to bring people together.

In the beginning there was Logos...and God of course. And it was all extremely boring for Logos because he could never beat God at any game...

الشعر اكتشف العالم، أمّا العالم فنسيه الشعر

هل ينبغي البوح للجرحى بأسرار القمر؟

Sex is like math. add the bed, subtract the clothes, divide your legs, and hope you don't multiply." Yannie-gator46

I tend to avoid writing music about initial reactions to situations, like frustration or anger. I'd rather wait till I go through the problem, and write about the learning that took place.

YANNI “JOHNNY” BACOLAS: I would always tell him, “Layne [Staley], why don’t you take off, go to some deserted island, hire the best counselors, and just kick this shit? Go for six months if you have to.” And his rebuttal was, “Johnny, I have celebrity status and I have a lot of money. I could fly planes out to deliver me the dope if I wanted to — and that’s what I would do. I can’t escape.

يصعد عالياً ليلمس الارض

ان لم تغمض عينيك من حين لحين لا تكبر

تستأنف، في شيخوختك، الطفلَ الذي كنته

أهو الجرح الذي يبوح؟ إنه يبوح بحق

أختي، لقد تركتني لتستندي على قلبك وتنصتي إلى نبض الناس. وحياتي تواصلت تحت سماء عينيك. وكنتِ تجيئين -محبة رقيقة- في الأمسيات التي كتبتُ فيها -وأنا أنحني صامتاً- قصائدي الغاضبة عن حروب الضوء والدم التي لا تنتهي. أحسستُ بحضورك خلف الليل. وغطت سطحي البارد شجرة الساعات الحانية عندما سمعت وقع أقدامك. كنت تبتسمين فتأتي كل السماوات إلى غرفتي. وانعكاسات لازوردية ترتعش على الجدران وذكرى بيتنا تنير قلبي عندما أعود مثقلاً بتجوالات الليل والمرارة الأبدية للوحدة.

Archetypes to symbols to thought-forms to emotions to motions to manifestations; that's how it flows. Everything and everyone originates in step one. Even me, you too.

ينظر في المرآة ليكرّر موته بدقّة

. إذا كان الموت هنا ، فهو يأتي ثانياً على الدوام . الحريّة دائماً تأتي أولاً

Then again, in some of our meetings, the Upyri bring cocktails, shaking both cocks and tails. Bitches. You can't live with them, they can't live without you. It's a lose-lose situation.

، وقال : إن من صفقتم له لم يكن أنا والكلمات التي نطقت بها ليست كلماتي - بل هي مرايا صغيرة ركِّزت أمامكم تعكس شذرات من وجوهكم أو توقعاتكم وأمام كلماتي ذاتها ركزت أنا ذاتي كضوء آت من بعيد ، يسقط على المرايا . فيعكس برقاً باهراً يغشى عيونكم فلا تروني

Just so ya know, mate, superpowers come at a cost." "What superpowers are you-" "Oi, listen. D'ya know Pinocchio? The wooden lad. Yeah, his superpower was ta lie ta everyone about anythin' he saw fit. An' I think 'tis cool if y'ask me. But it had a cost, it did. His nose grew longer with every lie. Ha! Ya see?" "No, I don't." "We're reality's lies mate. An' there's a cost ta'r existence." -Robert Cassidy, on people with paranormal abilities.

«البراعم غير الطبيعية التي تتفتح من أشلاء جسد انفجر صمته، تشظى ثم جمع أشلاءه وملأ الثقوب بالبراعم».

الأرق الطري لأولئك الذين عيَّنوا أنفسهم حراساً لنوم الأبرياء

لطالما السيف ولطالما الشفقة

لا تخفْ، من المياه التي تنهمر يُقبل النهر والحديقة

لم يمتلكِ الشعرُ مرّة الكلمةَ الأولى. الكلمة الاخيرة دوماً

Elleri yüzlere yeğlerim. Yüzler, şimdiki zamanla şişmiş, aptal, yabancıdırlar, anılarıyla hiç uzlaşamazlar ama ellerin resmi, hemen hemen dinsel, uzun sureli bir görgüleri var ve tarafsız bir içtenlikleri. Kanıtı: aynaya hiç bakmazlar. Bakışlarını ve duruşlarını hiç hesaplamazlar.

أختي، فيما وراءك وورائي، فيما وراء نظرتنا الكابية، فيما وراء الخط الكابي للأرض، هناك عند جذر الأشياء أنصتي إلى موجة النبض العلوية -الخارجة على السيطرة والتفسير- التي خلقتنا وتحكمنا. ماذا يمكن أن نقول؟ أفتح البوابات -باندهاش مذعور- في مواجهة الخلق وأحول الألم إلى نشوة والصرخة إلى صلاة. الضفائر البهيجة للآفاق تجفف قدميّ الداميتين وأقفز -خفيفاً، سعيداً- إلى ذروة الابتسام. أيتها الشمس، الشمس، أبي، أيها الحامي لي، تلقفني الآن. لا قيد يربط أجنحتي بالأرض. والضوء يشرق متوهجاً، أعلى من حبك، يا أختي، أعلى من حبي.

Καὶ νὰ ἀδελφέ μου ποὺ μάθαμε νὰ κουβεντιάζουμε ἥσυχα κι ἁπλά. Καταλαβαινόμαστε τώρα, δὲν χρειάζονται περισσότερα. Κι αὔριο λέω θὰ γίνουμε ἀκόμα πιὸ ἁπλοί. Θὰ βροῦμε αὐτὰ τὰ λόγια ποὺ παίρνουνε τὸ ἴδιο βάρος σ' ὅλες τὶς καρδιές, σ' ὅλα τὰ χείλη. Ἔτσι νὰ λέμε πιὰ τὰ σύκα-σύκα καὶ τὴ σκάφη-σκάφη. Κι ἔτσι ποὺ νὰ χαμογελᾶνε οἱ ἄλλοι καὶ νὰ λένε, «Τέτοια ποιήματα, σοῦ φτιάχνουμε ἑκατὸ τὴν ὥρα.» Αὐτὸ θέλουμε κι ἐμεῖς. Γιατὶ ἐμεῖς δὲν τραγουδᾶμε γιὰ νὰ ξεχωρίσουμε ἀδελφέ μου ἀπ' τὸν κόσμο. Ἐμεῖς τραγουδᾶμε γιὰ νὰ σμίξουμε τὸν κόσμο.

كأنما للقصيدة معنى. ألا جسد لها؟

تحطّمت طيّارة الورق؟ إحفظ خيطها

بتلة الياسمين، في كأس ماء، في أي سفر بعيد تجرفينني

Bu pencere yalnız. Bu yıldız yalnız, masada unutulmuş bir cıgara gibi - tüten, mavi mavi tüten, tek başına. Ben de yalnızım, diyor adam. Cıgaramı yakıyorum, içiyorum. Cıgara içip düşünüyorum. Yalnız değilim.

An unmentored daughter is an unnurtured daughter, unnurtured in the strength she needs to Survive as an original woman in this world. Daughters, as compared to sons in a hetero-relational family, are more undernurtured in all ways by mothers and pressured prematurely to become nurturers of others—mostly of men. What also happens in this context, as Denice Yanni has pointed out, is “a silencing of woman’s own needs for nurturing by making her the primary nurturer.

A simple life is good with me. I don't need a whole lot. For me, a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, barefoot on the beach and I'm happy.

Creativity is an inherent human quality of the highest order. When we create, we become more than the sum of our parts.

Ένας τρελός βάνει τη φωτιά στο δάσος και χίλιοι μυαλωμένοι δεν μπορούν να τη σβήσουν.Άμα λαμπαδιάσει το κακό,δε συμμαζεύεται.

Ό,τι προστάζουν τα θεμέλια προσκυνούν τα κεραμίδια.

The lonely moon — look — like a silver plate, like a plate full of leftovers at the small restaurant of sorrow when the travellers are gone and you hear the far away whistle of the ship under the night rooms.

The reason for the difference between the architectural and engineering 'climate', so to speak, is very complex. It is partly a matter of terminology, partly a matter of historical accident, and the consequent training of architects and engineers, and mostly a matter of what is commonly supposed to be the difference in content or context - architecture being concerned with producing works of art; engineering with utility structures.

In our hands we hold the shadow of our hands. The night is kind―the others do not see us holding our shadow. We reinforce the night. We watch ourselves. So we think better of others. The sea still seeks our eyes and we are not there. A young girl buttons up her love in her breast and we look away smiling at the great distance. Perhaps high up, in the starlight, a skylight opens up that looks out on the sea, the olive trees and the burnt houses― We listen to the butterfly gyrating in the glass of All Soul’s Day, and the fisherman’s daughter grinding serenity in her coffee- grinder.

Seven Versions" 1. The Kiss Massive languor, languor hammered; Sentient languor, languor dissected; Languor deserted, reignite your sidereal fires; Holier languor, arise from love. The wood’s owl has come home. 2. Beyond Sunlight I can’t shakle one of your ankles as if you were a falcon, but nothing can prevent me from following, no matter how far, even beyond sunlight where Jesus becomes visible: I’ll follow, I will wait, I will never give up until I understand why you are going away from me. 3. A Man Wound His Watch In the darkness the man wound his watch before secreting it under his pillow. Then he went to sleep. Outside, the wind was blowing. You who comprehend the repercussions of the faintest gesture—you will understand. A man, his watch, the wind. What else is there? 4. For Which There Is No Name Let me have what the tree has and what it can never lose, let me have it and lose it again, blurred lines the wind draws with the darkness it gets from summer nights, formless indescribable darkness. Either give me back my gladness, or the courage to think about how it was lost to me. Give me back, not what I see, but my sight. Let me meet you again owning nothing but what is in the past. Let me inherit the very thing I am forbidden. And let me continue to seek, though I know it is futile, the only heaven that I could endure: unhurting you. 5. The Composer People said he was overly fond of the good life and ate like a pig. Yet the servant who brought him his chocolate in bed would sometimes find him weeping quietly, both plump pink hands raised slightly and conducting, evidently, in small brief genuflective feints. He experienced the reality of death as music. 6. Detoxification And I refuse to repent of my drug use. It gave me my finest and happiest hours. And I have been wondering: will I use drugs again? I will if my work wants me to. And if drugs want me to. 7. And Suddenlty It’s Night You stand there alone, like everyone else, the center of the world’s attention, a ray of sunlight passing through you. And suddenly it’s night. Franz Wright, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, Vol I Issue I . (May 15th, 2011) The individual sections of “Seven Versions” ia based, loosely—some very loosely—on poems by Rene Char, Rumi, Yannis Ritsos, Natan Zach, Günther Eich, Jean Cocteau, and Salvatore Quasimodo.

Aplikasi Online ( Aplikasi Pemutar Mp3 ( Dapur Vivi's ( Dinding Vivi's ( Ku'e Kampung ( Oretan Vivi's ( Thema Samsung Corby ( Trik Dan Tips ( Ttng Wanita ( Videos RingTune

http://cewe_imut.mywapblog.com

liked to stick around. He liked to be on the move. Two days in one place was about his limit. But he was stuck for alternatives. He couldn’t hint at anything to Alex Rodin. Couldn’t give him a call-me-if-you-need-me number. For one thing, he didn’t have a phone. For another, a guy as squared away and cautious as Alex Rodin was would worry away at the hint until something began to unravel. He would make the link to the Pentagon easily enough. Reacher had even asked did she get my name from the Pentagon? That had been a careless mistake. So Alex Rodin would put two and two together, eventually. He would figure there’s something extra here, and I can find out what it is from the Pentagon. The Pentagon would stonewall him, of course. But Rodin wouldn’t like being stonewalled. He would go to the media. Ann Yanni, probably. She would be ready for another network story. And at bottom Rodin would be insecure enough about losing the case to simply have to know. He wouldn’t give up on it. And Reacher didn’t want the story out there. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. Gulf War vets had it hard enough, with the chemical stuff and the uranium poisoning. All they had going for them was the conflict’s spotless just-war reputation. They didn’t need defaming by association with people like Barr and his victims. People would say hey, they were all doing it. And they weren’t all doing it, in Reacher’s experience. That had been a good army. So he didn’t want the story out there, unless it was absolutely necessary, and he wanted to judge that for himself. So, no hints to Alex Rodin. No call-me contingencies. So . . . what, exactly? He decided to stick around for twenty-four hours. Maybe there would be a clearer prognosis on Barr’s condition after that. Maybe somehow he could check with Emerson and get a better feel for the evidence. Then maybe he could feel OK about leaving things with Alex Rodin’s office, on a kind of forensic autopilot. If there were problems down the road maybe he would read about them in a newspaper somewhere, far in the future, on a beach or in a bar, and then he could come

Whatcha listenin' to?" "Oh, you probably wouldn't like it." "Try me." He shrugs as he passes the headphones across the slim space between our beds. This is gonna be good. I've got him pegged for a Yanni diehard, and I smirk a little as the music starts. One of my cellies had a thing for electronic rock, so I recognize the song right away. With the heavy breathing at the start, it's unforgettable and creepy as hell. Seriously. Like stalker-level shit. I want you now, tomorrow won't do. There's a yearning inside and it's showing through. "Depeche Mode, huh? Cool, man. Wouldn't have figured it." Reach out your hands and accept my love. We've waited for too long. Enough is enough. Like I said, stalker-level. His laugh is jittery, quick as the cockroaches in Folsom. "It's my favorite song. Reminds me of being seventeen again. You know, when sex was all you could think about." I pretend I'm not totally skeeved out when I return his headphones and shut the lights.

Reacher said, “They sleep safely in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do them harm.” “You know George Orwell?” Yanni asked. “I went to college,” Reacher said. “West Point is technically a college.

+ Aşk ve evlilik üzerine neler söylersiniz? - Bence aşk, her türlü rasyonalitenin kapandığı bir tutkudur. Bu tutku bir konuya veya bir insana karşı olabilir. Fakat aşkın sürmesi için saygıyla desteklenmesi gerekir. Dolayısıyla aşık olduğun insana aynı zamanda saygı duyabilmen çok önemlidir. Çünkü aşkın irrasyonel yanları zamanla kaybolur. Geriye rasyonel yanlar kaldığında karşıdakine saygı duymuyorsan onu bırakırsın. Evlendiğimiz zaman bu konuyu Oya'ya da bu şekilde açıklamıştım. Corelli'nin Mandolini filmini çok severim, orada da Dr. Yannis çok güzel bir şey söyler: "Aşk, aşık olmak bittikten sonra geri kalandır." Bu önemli bir tespit ve benim söylediğimi de destekliyor. Aşk, saygıyla harmanlanmış büyük bir sevgidir aslında.

Stiff with terror, I hold the pose as Yannie’s flashes radiate off the backdrop. I open my arms to present in second position. I throw back my head, letting my hair cascade to the small of my back. I curve sideways like the marble statue of a water nymph—Dress like a Nun—that rule has most definitely gone down. At last, the rapid-fire clicking stops. Yannie speaks in Mandarin. Sophie’s no longer smiling. “We’re done.” “Already?” “I told you. She’s got another customer in a few minutes.” I don’t budge.

It is important to pray correctly, but I want to go on record stating that God is bigger than our best prayers!

Creo en la poesía, en el amor y en la muerte, por eso precisamente creo en la inmortalidad.

These comments recall Turkle's distinction between two kinds of "transparency" in technological cultures. Modernist transparency is the notion that users can and should have access to the inner workings of a technology. It evokes the aesthetic of early relationships with cars in which one could "open the hood and see inside." Turkle contrasts this with an opposing, post-modern meaning of the term - the notion that something is transparent if you can use it without knowing how it works. Post-modern transparency allows the user to navigate the surface of a system without ever having to access its underlying mechanics. Are young engineers more susceptible to post-modern ways of seeing simulation?

Martin explains that working with architects in the Arup SoundLab has led to improved collaborations: 'We can relate to architects much better. If we are brought on board at the ideal time, which is if we are brought on board at concept, we can sit with the architect and say...this is what you have to work with. They can hear and they can understand it. Then from their first ideas and concepts they are much more willing to work with us when we talk to them about shape and form.

Martin's distinction between the approach to acoustics characterized by the Sabine formula and his own approach, using the Arup SoundLab, recalls the sociologist Max Weber's distinction between the ethics of the scientist and those of the politician. Weber explains the vocation of science as the pursuit of clarity. Scientists follow an "ethic of ultimate ends," in which the ends justify the means. "The believer in an ethic of ultimate ends feels responsibility only for seeing to it that the flame of pure intentions is not squelched." Weber contrasts this with the politician's "ethic of responsibility." For Weber, being a politician means giving priority to the legitimacy of the means over the end. In their shift from the optimization of reverberation time to the pursuit of a consensus in the Arup SoundLab, acousticians have traded the ethics of the scientist for those of the politician. By focusing on a collaborative means of examining architectural acoustics, Martin and his colleagues have created a place for themselves as engaged co-designers rather than objective scientists.

Aldus Barnes, a structural engineer by training and member of the Advanced Geometry Unit (AGU) at Arup, has formed many successful collaborations and earned a prominent place for himself in architecture by adopting the language and skills of architects. "Talk in terms of texture and density, instead of torsion and shear. That way they don't think you are just another nerd," Barnes advises the young members of his team.

I learned in the course of time that the mind is a lifebuoy.

And that is all it takes for one to gain strength. A clean conscience.

It’s me. Where’s Rina?” “With Yanni. I brought her back after our tour.” “Do me a favor, and go get them. The ATF knows I was at their building, and suspects I was seeing a source. They want the source.” Cole made a soft whistle. “How do you know?” “I just spent three hours with them.” Pike sketched out what he found at Willowbrook, what happened when Walsh had him picked up, and the information she gave him about Darko.

Pike said, “Yanni’s building is being watched by the police. You shouldn’t go back.” Yanni mumbled something in Serbian, and Rina chattered something back. She said, “The police don’t care about Yanni. Why would they watch?” “They followed me earlier today. They know I’m trying to find Darko, so now they believe someone in Yanni’s complex has information about him. They will look for that person.” Rina and Yanni launched into more Serbian, and Yanni didn’t look happy. Cole turned away as if he had heard enough foreign-language conversations to last a lifetime. “You want something to eat?” “Not yet. Did you find anything running the check on Darko’s condominiums?” “Yeah. They’re not his condos—not in his name or any name I’ve been able to connect to him. This guy is hidden, man—he does not exist, so he’s almost certainly here illegally.” Cole ticked off the points. “No one named Michael Darko appears in the DMV, the Social Security rolls, or the California state tax rolls. No one by that name has an account with any of the major credit card companies, the public utilities here in Los Angeles County, the telephone company, or any of the major cell service providers. Michael Darko has no criminal record that I’ve been able to find.” Rina said, “In Serbia. In Serbia, he was arrested. This I know.” Pike

The sea remains behind the closed eyelids a half seen face behind the bands of rain.

there is a silent happiness behind the closed window shutters, as if you were touching, with your sorrowful fingers, that same tortured hand of our old friend.

How bitter is the evening. The evening star is red against the grey sky of the neighbourhood like the bloodied hole in the shirt of the killed man.

The clouds rise on the horizon — lots of clouds like the empty baskets of the fruit sellers stacked on the side of the quay when winter comes — they hide the sea.

Do you remember that morning? A foreign ship was entering the harbour. The foreign captain on the bridge took off his hat and waved to the Greek fishing boats, our cruising boats which sailed off to Salamina, Paros and Aegina. We waved too; we spelled the foreign language letters on the wide side of the ship as if we read the word I love you in our first love letter.

We’re better off to gather our days, to fold them as we fold our summer cloths before we place them in the chest, to place our joined hands on our knees now when the clouds yawn over the roofs now when sorrow spreads over your face silently like the silence in the room of the university student while the tempest intensifies outside.

you listen to the great music while you saunter in the harbour with the twelve boat masts like a speechless restaurant server who cleans the autumnal tables folding carefully the napkins of the night, gathering  the stack  of plates with the leftover fish bones.

Now the last two birds drink rain water from the half part of the broken violin.

The sky cleared up; a piece of it lights the window —

When you say tomorrow is as if you want to console someone.

The leaves of our small lemon tree wilt slowly in the garden as the bus tickets from our past expeditions to the shore get wilted in the pockets of our summer pants.

The wind always perks up at midnight. The houses buzz. The posters from last year’s movies flutter on the walls

sorrow you left behind on the ledge like the ripped shoe of the spring that was left on the rock when the last group grabbed three meters of sea and left stooping among the tents of the wind.

wild olive tree leaf like a cloths peg on the cloths line — who pays attention to it and who will undo the cloths peg that holds the kerchief of summer?

You, my friend, you come back when the countryside is deserted every time the vacationers with their suitcases wait at the quay and the evenings are sitting all alone in the square of the island a long line of empty chairs turned upside on the round tables where loneliness dines raising its veil a little, and the garden benches left in the rain, my good friend my beloved friend

The clock of the Station was like the last page of a book and each time you spoke, the name of our motherland came out of your mouth like you take out of the old suitcase the thick flannel- shirt of a farmer.

The glasses again, the cigarette butts — all the same; nothing changes inside this mirror.

The sky has known of us before we knew each other, before we separated, before the handkerchief was waved from the deck.

Ordénales, te ruego, que callen. ¿Por qué siguen gritando? ¿A quién aplauden? ¿A quién aclaman? ¿A sus verdugos? ¿A sus muertos? ¿O querrán convencerse de que tienen manos y pueden hacerlas sonar, de que tienen voz y pueden gritar y oír así la voz que tienen?

Perdóname esta visión, pero sobre todo que la confiese- es una manera de que podáis verme; de estar en igualdad-tal como estamos- es decir, desarmados. Pero, de nuevo, en este momento, me pregunto ¿qué fruto espero cosechar, qué busco eludir, qué intento ocultar con esta confesión?-¿y esta nueva careta de cristal irrompible por encima del frágil vidrio de mi cara- una careta grande y hueca, que adopta mis rasgos, mi expresión, colgada en lo alto, frente al palacio, en el frontón de la entrada, la única insignia mía, no de la dinastía? A veces creo que todo ocurrió para que yo lo recuerde algún día o, quizá, para que descubra su vanidad inmortal.

Creo que no me estás escuchando;-parecería que tienes prisa. Cierto, sí, todos tenemos prisa de que el otro calle para poder hablar nosotros. Y cada uno de nosotros no oye sino sus propias palabras. ¿Qué importancia tienen las palabras? Sólo la acción se cuenta y cuenta -como siempre subrayabas.

Y la piedra en la que a media tarde se sentaron bajo los olivos frente al mar, mañana será cal en el horno, pasado mañana encalaremos nuestras casas y el petril de Santa Salvadora, al otro día plantaremos la semilla allí donde se quedaron dormidos, y un capullo del granado estallará como la primera risa del bebé en el regazo de la luz del sol. Y ya después nos sentaremos en la piedra para leer enteros sus corazones como si leyéramos por primera vez la historia del universo.

Y aquel rumor del agua suspendido en la noche se cuaja por el frío de las estrellas en azucenas de cristal esperando a que las pongamos en el jarrón de nuestra alma.

Una sombra en el manantial. Hielo en el barril. La hija del herrero con los pies empapados. Encima de la mesa, el pan y la aceituna, en el emparrado, el candil de la aurora, y allá en lo alto, girando en su espetón, la galaxia se perfuma con la grasa chamuscada, el ajo y la pimienta.

A good book can introduce you to new places and people. A great book, on the other hand, introduces you to a life-long friend.

I cried for the person I used to be. Because he was gone. My innocence, my youth, was ripped away from me, and I felt old. I was twenty-one, yet I felt I’d lived a hundred years.

The loss of my family was like a dripping faucet. Constant background noise that never went away. Sometimes it was drowned out by other noises, but it was always there just drip, drip, dripping in the back of my mind. I