“She had not really a sensitive soul, but to put it in exact terms, was possessed by an uncontrollable feeling of mind”

“He puts down the pen, folds the sheet of paper, and slips it inside an envelope. He stands up, takes from his trunk a mahogany box, lifts the lid, lets the letter fall inside, open and unaddressed. In the box are hundreds of identical envelopes, open and unaddressed. He thinks that somewhere in the world he will meet a woman who has always been his woman. Every now and again he regrets that destiny has been so stubbornly determined to make him wait with such indelicate tenacity, but with time he has learned to consider the matter with great serenity. Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes: but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place the mahogany box full of letters on her lap and say to her, 'I was waiting for you.'"She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, read the letters one by one. As she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the years-- the days, the moments-- that that man, before he ever met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps more simply, she will overturn the box and astonished at that comical snowstorm of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, 'You are mad.' And she will love him forever.”

“…how it would be nice if, for every sea waiting for us, there would be a river, for us. And someone -a father, a lover, someone- able to take us by the hand and find that river -imagine it, invent it- and put us on its stream, with the lightness of one only word, goodbye. This, really, would be wonderful. It would be sweet, life, every life. And things wouldn’t hurt, but they would get near taken by stream, one could first shave and then touch them and only finally be touched. Be wounded, also. Die because of them. Doesn’t matter. But everything would be, finally, human. It would be enough someone’s fancy -a father, a lover, someone- could invent a way, here in the middle of the silence, in this land which don’t wanna talk. Clement way, and beautiful.A way from here to the sea.”

“Mislim na odgovor a u glavi mi tek mrakI stoga ja uzimam taj mrak i stavljam ga u Tvoje ruke.I molim Te Gospode dobri Božeda bude kod Tebe samo sat vremenadrži ga u ruci tolikokoliko je dovoljno da se istopi crnilo,da se istopi zlošto stvaraju taj mrak i to crnilo,u glavi,u srcu, bi li bio tako ljubazan?Mogao bi se samo nagnutipogledati ganasmiješiti mu seotvoriti gaukrasti mu tračaksvjetlosti i pustiti ga da padnea ja ću se već pobrinuti da ga nađemda vidim gdje je.Za Tebe je to prava sitnica,a za mene baš i nije.Slušaš li me Gospode dobri Bože?Ne tražim mnogo od Tebekada tražim da.I nije uvredanadati se da Ti.Nije glupo zanositi se da.Napokon, to je tek molitva,jedan od mnogih načina ispisivanja mirisa očekivanja.Ti ispiši,kuda god želiš,put što sam ga izgubio.Dovoljan je znak,bilo što,lagana ogrebotina na zjenicama tih očiju što gledaju,a ne vide,i ja ću to znati.Ispiši svijetom jednu jedinu riječ ispisanu za mene,i ja ću je pročitati.Dotakni trenutak ove tišine,i ja ću to osjetiti.Nemaj straha,ja se ne bojim.I neka ova molitva poleti snagom svojih riječipreko krletke svijeta sve do tko zna kamo. Amen.”

“We are full of words whose true meaning we haven't been taught, and one of those words is suffering. Another is the word death. We don't know what they mean, but we use them, and this is a mystery.”

“Jasper Gwyn diceva che tutti siamo qualche pagina di un libro, ma di un libro che nessuno ha mai scritto e che invano cerchiamo negli scaffali della nostra mente.”

“La prima cosa è il mio nome, la seconda quegli occhi, la terza un pensiero, la quarta la notte che viene, la quinta quei corpi straziati, la sesta è la fame, la settima orrore, l'ottava i fantasmi della follia, la nona è carne e la decima è un uomo che mi guarda e non mi uccide.”