carmen
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read in August 2015
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"10 años después de la primera vez que bajé al infierno, vuelvo a adentrarme en el lugar sin esperanza. mejor que la primera. pero sigo sin terminar de conectar con Dante." — Jul 20, 2025 07:30AM
"10 años después de la primera vez que bajé al infierno, vuelvo a adentrarme en el lugar sin esperanza. mejor que la primera. pero sigo sin terminar de conectar con Dante." — Jul 20, 2025 07:30AM
“The library was a little old shabby place. Francie thought it was beautiful. The feeling she had about it was as good as the feeling she had about church. She pushed open the door and went in. She liked the combined smell of worn leather bindings, library past and freshly inked stamping pads better than she liked the smell of burning incense at high mass.”
― A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
― A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
“Well' Francie decided, 'I guess the thing that is giving me this headache is life - and nothing else but'.”
― A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
― A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.”
― Crime and Punishment
― Crime and Punishment
“She was made up of more, too. She was the books she read in the library. She was the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie's secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father stumbling home drunk. She was all of these things and of something more...It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life - the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.”
― A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
― A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
“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".”
― Cien años de soledad
― Cien años de soledad
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