A

“حبيبتي .. هل أنا حقاً حبيبته
وهل أصدق بعد الهجر دعواه
أما انتهت من سنين قصتي معه
ألم تمت كخيوط الشمس ذكراه
أما كسرنا كؤوس الحب من زمن
فكيف نبكي على كأس كسرناه
رباه أشياءه الصغرى تعذبني
فكيف أنجو من الأشياء رباهُ
هنا جريدته في الركن مهملة
هنا كتاب معاً كنا قرأناه
على المقاعد بعض من سجائره
وفي الزوايا بقايا من بقاياه
مالي أحدق في المرآة أسألها
بأي ثوب من الأثواب ألقاه
أأدعي أنني أصبحت أكرهه
وكيف أكره من في الجفن سكناه
وكيف أهرب منه إنه قدري
هل يملك النهر تغييراً لمجراه
أحبه .. لست أدري ما أحب به
حتى خطاياه ما عادت خطاياه”
― نزار قباني

“غالباً ما يدور الحديث عن سحر الكتب و لا يقال بما فيه الكفاية إن هذا السحر مزدوج؛ فهناك سحر قراءتها و هناك سحر الحديث عنها”
― أمين معلوف, التائهون

“When I try to picture for myself what a happy life might look like, the picture hasn't changed very much since I was a child - a house with flowers and trees around it, and a river nearby, and a room full of books, and someone there to love me, that's all. Just to make a home there, and to care for my parents when they grow older. Never to move, never to board a plane again, just to live quietly and then be buried in the earth.”
― Sally Rooney, Beautiful World, Where Are You

“Ten little Indian boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little Indian boys sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Indian boys travelling in Devon; One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little Indian boys chopping up sticks; One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little Indian boys playing with a hive; A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little Indian boys going in for law; One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little Indian boys going out to sea; A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little Indian boys walking in the Zoo; A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little Indian boys sitting in the sun; One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little Indian boy left all alone; He went and hanged himself and then there were none.”
― Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None