Province Quotes

“Lisbon, to me,
is the Lisbon of Pessoa.
Just like London is Woolf’s,
or rather, Mrs. Dalloway’s.
Barcelona is Gaudí's
and Rome is da Vinci’s.
You see them in every crevice
and hear their echoes
in every cathedral.
I’d like to be the child,
or rather, the mother of a city
but I neither have a home
nor a resting place.
My race is humankind.
My religion is kindness.
My work is love
and, well, my city
is the walls of your heart.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“War is ever the folly of the ignorant. But I have seen much to convince me some wars must be fought, to the bitterest end if need be.”
― Anthony Ryan, Queen of Fire

“Let me put it this way. Canada is not so much a country as a holding tank filled with the disgruntled progeny of defeated peoples.”
― Mordecai Richler

“Ukanda wa Gaza ni jimbo lenye miji minne na kambi mbalimbali za wakimbizi za Umoja wa Mataifa – lenye urefu wa kati ya kilometa 41 au maili 25 na lenye upana wa kati ya kilometa 6 mpaka 12 au maili 3.7 mpaka 7.5, pamoja na eneo la jumla la kilometa za mraba 365 au maili za mraba 141. Jimbo hili liliwahi kutawaliwa na Wamisri, Wakaanani, Waisraeli, Wasiria, Wababelonia, Wagiriki, Warumi, Waturuki, Waingereza, na Wapalestina, na limekuwa uwanja wa vita kwa karne nyingi kwa sababu za kidini na kihistoria. Ukanda wa Gaza uko chini ya Palestina. Uko chini ya serikali ya Hamas.”
― Enock Maregesi

“Столько лет прошло, а он отчетливо помнил, как, уходя поздно вечером из класса, выходил на темную улицу... и думал, что больше половины жизни человек в провинции не видит своей тени из-за сплошной темноты.

А ведь в отбрасывании тени сокрыто больше, чем кажется. Если хотите, тень — это способ идентификации себя в мире. А по части самоопределения у многих людей царила такая же тьма, как на неосвещенных улицах провинциального городка.”
― Максим Бутченко, Художник войны

“Mercy is the province of cowards.”
― Amie Kaufman

“The night of 'the look' on the avenue de New York. People drift along not seeing each other. It is like a vernissage without paintings. It could be the Exterminating Angel or 'Pure Festival' - pure in the sense of Virilio's 'pure war' - on screen. The only hot spot is the trap-door through which the champagne arrives. Peculiar feverish, power-mad tribe, dissolute yet oversensitive, metaphysics with infrared lighting. Nothing in their gaze, everything in the way they look, nothing in their eyes, everything in the decibel level.

The gentle air of the Piazza Navona in December, with the acetylene lamps and the reflections of the turquoise water on the Bernini horses. A beauty that is purely Roman. In the Campo dei Fiori someone has laid fresh flowers at the foot of the statue of Giordano Bruno, burned for heresy on this very spot four centuries ago. The touching loyalty of the Roman people; where else would you see such a thing? The hot December multitudes spill out into the street: Christmas is almost as mild here as in Brazil. The city is only beautiful when the crowd invades it. So many people on the streets always gives the impression of a silent uprising. Everyone walks along in the luminous muted buzz of voices and the narrow streets. Everything is transformed into a silent opera, a theatrical geometry. Everything sings in this part of the city.”
― Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories

“[Walter Scott] lived in a hiatus, in a country which was neither a nation nor a province, and had, instead of a centre, a blank, an Edinburgh, in the middle of it.”
― Edwin Muir, Scott and Scotland: The Predicament of the Scottish Writer