Mariana

“To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know any thing so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing -- the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one's hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again.”
― Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping

“Boys are just boys after all, but sometimes girls really seem to be the turn of a pale wrist, or the sudden jut of a hip, or a clutch of very dark hair falling across a freckled forehead. I'm not saying that's what they really are. I'm just saying sometimes it seems that way, and that those details (a thigh mole, a full face flush, a scar the precise shape and size of a cashew nut) are so many hooks waiting to land you.”
― Zadie Smith

“If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire. But just before they go on fire you see the lagoon. This is the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment; if there could be two moments you might see the surf and hear the mermaids singing.”
― J.M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy

“A avó, já velhíssima então, proporcionava-lhe um assombro inquieto, pois, perdendo o equilíbrio das suas faculdades, parecia que se desumanizava. Falava muito, sempre coisas da sua juventude, e não compreendia que o marido tivesse morrido. “Quando o teu pai vier...” — dizia a Quina. Ou: “Prepara-lhe aí um bocado de vinho quente, para que o tome quando chegar.” E Quina respondia, invariavelmente e com modo cheio de doçura. “Sim, minha mãe. Já vou, senhora.” Nestes momentos, Germa cravava nas duas os olhos atemorizados e duvidosos; era como se o espaço extensíssimo duma época que não vivera se lhe colocasse diante, sem que ela deixasse de sentir-se expulsa, mais do que distante, desse tempo morto, porém inesgotável.”
― Agustina Bessa-Luís, A Sibila