Nick Stavros

“We have to build the Republic of Heaven where we are, because for us, there is no elsewhere.”
― Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass

“El amor es una enfermedad de las más jodidas y contagiosas. A los enfermos, cualquier nos reconoce. Hondas ojeras delatan que jamás dormimos, despabilados noche tras noche por los abrazos, o por la ausencia de los abrazos, y padecemos fiebres devastadoras y sentimos una irresistible necesidad de decir estupideces.”
― Eduardo Galeano, The Book of Embraces

“I'd learned about music since before I could talk. I knew ten thousand rules of melody and verse better than I knew the backs of my own hands.

Denna didn't. In some ways this hampered her, but in other ways it made her music strange and marvelous...

...Think of music as being a great snarl of a city like Tarbean. In the years I spent living there, I came to know its streets. Not just the main streets. Not just the alleys. I knew shortcuts and rooftops and parts of the sewers. Because of this, I could move through the city like a rabbit in a bramble. I was quick and cunning and clever.

Denna, on the other hand, had never been trained. She knew nothing of shortcuts. You'd think she'd be forced to wander the city, lost and helpless, trapped in a twisting maze of mortared stone.

But instead, she simply walked through the walls. She didn't know any better. Nobody had ever told her she couldn't. Because of this, she moved through the city like some faerie creature. She walked roads no one else could see, and it made her music wild and strange and free.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

“Muchos años después, frente al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que su padre lo llevó a conocer el hielo. Macondo era entonces una aldea de 20 casas de barro y cañabrava construidas a la orilla de un río de aguas diáfanas que se precipitaban por un lecho de piedras pulidas, blancas y enormes como huevos prehistóricos. El mundo era tan reciente, que muchas cosas carecían de nombre, y para mencionarlas había que señalarlas con el dedo".”
― Gabriel García Márquez, Cien años de soledad