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News of the World
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Uncle Paul
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War and Peace
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read in July 2021
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  (page 264 of 704)
Jun 08, 2024 09:51AM

 
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Elif Shafak
“You don't share a language, you think, and then you realise, grief is a language. We understand each other, people with troubled pasts.”
Elif Shafak, The Island of Missing Trees
tags: grief

“If Pakistani cities were caricatures, most would be easy to draw. Lahore is corpulent and languid, stretched out in a shalwar kameez, twirling its moustache over a greasy breakfast. Islamabad cuts a more clipped figure, holding court in a gilded drawing room, proffering Scotch and political whispers. Peshawar wears a turban or a burka, scuttling among the stalls of an ancient bazaar. But Karachi is harder to sketch. It has too many faces: the shiny-shod businessman, rushing to the gym; the hardscrabble labourer who sends his wages to a distant village; the slinky young socialite, kicking off her heels as she bends over a line of cocaine.”
Declan Walsh, The Nine Lives of Pakistan: Dispatches from a Precarious State

Shelby Mahurin
“How old are you?” I asked again, louder this time.
“Very old.”
Odd, indeed. I stared at him. “ What are you?”
He chuckled, his eyes cutting to mine. “I simply . . . am.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Of course it is. Why must I bind myself to fit your expectations?”
Shelby Mahurin, Blood & Honey

Shelby Mahurin
“when a person brings you more hurt than happiness, you’re allowed to let them go.”
Shelby Mahurin, Blood & Honey

Ovid
“Let your mistress’s birthday be one of great terror to you:
that’s a black day when anything has to be given.
However much you avoid it, she’ll still win: it’s
a woman’s skill, to strip wealth from an ardent lover.
A loose-robed pedlar comes to your lady: she likes to buy:
and explains his prices while you’re sitting there.
She’ll ask you to look, because you know what to look for:
then kiss you: then ask you to buy her something there.
She swears that she’ll be happy with it, for years,
but she needs it now, now the price is right.
If you say you haven’t the money in the house, she’ll ask
for a note of hand – and you’re sorry you learnt to write.
Why - she asks doesn’t she for money as if it’s her birthday,
just for the cake, and how often it is her birthday, if she’s in need?
Why - she weeps doesn’t she, mournfully, for a sham loss,
that imaginary gem that fell from her pierced ear?
They many times ask for gifts, they never give in return:
you lose, and you’ll get no thanks for your loss.
And ten mouths with as many tongues wouldn’t be enough
for me to describe the wicked tricks of whores.”
Ovid, The Art of Love

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