Rebeca

“Promise me one thing,” she said softly with a quality in her voice as of joylessness which nothing could ever animate again. ““When I am dead, put flowers on my grave. Not at my funeral and not a large bought wreath.
“I like to imagine how I'll receive visits, how I'll lie there and sleep. I love graveyards so—generally those that are a little run down. I don’t want any well groomed gaudy grave—but a gray stone, half sunk already and half overgrown with ivy. Then the beautiful woman in the white dress who stops before it will think of me for a moment, not with grief, but with a gentle melancholy, and will strew a handful of flowers over me. I’ll feel them, oh, make no mistake, I’ll feel them!”
― Anna Elisabet Weirauch, The Scorpion

“We live— and we don't know how! We love—and we don't know why! We die—and we don't know when!”
― Anna Elisabet Weirauch, The Scorpion

“She did not wish to die. Or rather, she would gladly have died, if it had not involved being dead.”
― Anna Elisabet Weirauch, The Scorpion

“I would die of shame if I thought that only the nerve-endings in our skin vibrate. Don’t you feel that something has happened to your soul that must remain with it beyond all death? Don’t you feel that this hour has changed you beyond any power of death to change?” “Yes,” said Metta. “And more than any birth. I was born today—not twenty years ago. Now I can say to my- self for the first time consciously: “I live!” ‘We live!” said Olga, clasping her to her, with an exultation in her voice that was like the jubilant cry of a wild bird rising in flight.
“We live, sweetheart! Forever, and ever, and ever, we live!”
― Anna Elisabet Weirauch, The Scorpion