Tawfik Saabi

“Tired of his lack of understanding, she asked him for an unusual birthday gift: that for one day he would take care of the domestic chores. He accepted in amusement, and indeed took charge of the house at dawn. He served a splendid breakfast, but he forgot that fried eggs did not agree with her and that she did not drink café con leche. Then he ordered a birthday luncheon for eight guests and gave instructions for tidying the house, and he tried so hard to manage better than she did that before noon he had to capitulate without a trace of embarrassment. From the first moment he realized he did not have the slightest idea where anything was, above all in the kitchen, and the servants let him upset everything to find each item, for they were playing the game too. At ten o’clock no decisions had been made regarding lunch because the housecleaning was not finished yet, the bedroom was not straightened, the bathroom was not scrubbed; he forgot to replace the toilet paper, change the sheets, and send the coachmen for the children, and he confused the servants’ duties: he told the cook to make the beds and set the chambermaids to cooking. At eleven o’clock, when the guests were about to arrive, the chaos in the house was such that Fermina Daza resumed command, laughing out loud, not with the triumphant attitude she would have liked but shaken instead with compassion for the domestic helplessness of her husband. He was bitter and offered the argument he always used: “Things did not go as badly for me as they would for you if you tried to cure the sick.” But it was a useful lesson, and not for him alone. Over the years they both reached the same wise conclusion by different paths: it was not possible to live together in any way, or love in any other way, and nothing in this world was more difficult than love.”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

“I’ve never cared for humming verse
But what to do inside a jail?
I’ll hum some verse to pass long days
I’ll hum and wait till freedom comes.”
― Hồ Chí Minh, Poems from the Prison Diary of Ho Chi Minh

“قل للغياب: نقصتني.. وأنا حضرت لأُكمّلك”
― محمود درويش, كزهر اللوز أو أبعد

“وما معنى أن يكون الفلسطيني شاعراً، وما معنى أن يكون الشاعر فلسطينيا؟ الأول: أن يكون نتاجاً لتاريخ، موجوداً باللغة؟ والثاني: أن يكون ضحية لتاريخ، منتصرا باللغة. لكن الأول والثاني واحد لا ينقسم ولا يلتئم في آن واحد.”
― محمود درويش, في حضرة الغياب