Posted: Mai 9, 2012 in De-ale altora

Am citit Anne of Green Gables acum cateva luni.. de atunci am citit altele si am uitat de citatele pe care le salvasem. Mi-a fost tare draga, Anne asta.

A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said.
” Oh, it seems so wonderful that I’m going to live with you and belong to you. I’ve never belonged to anybody–not really.”
” Mrs Spencer said that my tongue must be hung in the middle. But it isn’t–it’s firmly fastened at one end.”
” It’s the first thing I ever saw that couldn’t be improved upon by imagination.”
Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla’s grim expression.
” It blooms as if it meant it”
There is nothing more aggravating than a man who won’t talk back–unless it’s a woman who won’t.
„You’d find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair”, said Anne reproachfully. „People who haven’t red hair don’t know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red ON PURPOSE, and I’ve never cared about Him since.” (Anne of Green Gables)

Azi am terminat a treia carte din seria The Royal Assassin, a lui Robin Hobb. As fi trebuit sa stau cuminte si sa ma concentrez pe teza, pe raport… dar inima mea nu era acolo, asa ca mai bine lasa… Am plans rar, foarte rar citind cate o carte; ma implic, imi imaginez, savurez detaliile, dar nu intru atat de mult in carte. Dar uneori cate ceva ma prinde. Am gasit ce poate fi mai bun decat ideea din Eternal Sunshine….

Take my memories of my mother, and the feelings that went with them. I do not want to know them at all. Take the ache in my throat when I think of Molly, take all the sharp-edged, bright-coloured days I recall with her. Take their brilliance and leave me but the shadows of what I saw and felt. Let me recall them without cutting myself on their sharpness. Take my days and nights in Regal’s dungeons. It is enough to know what was done to me. Take it to keep, and let me stop feeling my face against that stone floor, hearing the sound of my nose breaking, smelling and tasting my own blood. Take my hurt that I never knew my father, take my hours of staring up at his portrait when the great hall was empty and I could do so alone. Take my — (…)— memories of that tower-top, of the bare windswept Queen’s Garden and Galen standing over me. Take that image of Molly going so willingly to Burrich’s arms. Take it and quench it and seal it away where it can never sear me again. Take — (…) Putting it into the dragon had helped in the same way that cutting off an infected limb helped. Being rid of it was not the same as being healed of it. The empty place inside me itched. Perhaps I wanted to hurt.

Probabil ca asta se intampla si cand scrii. O bucata din tot ce simti e lasata pe hartie. Poate. Dar imi place mai mult ideea unui dragon umplut cu sentimente si amintiri. Dragonii astia sunt colorati, insa, nu sunt negri.


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