Jasmina

“More than anything I was relieved that in my unfamiliar babbling-and-wanting-to-talk state I'd stopped myself from blurting the thing I'd never said, even though it was something we both knew well enough without me saying out loud to him in the street - which was, of course, I love you.”
― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

“Who am I? Who am I?”
“You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.”

"And who are you?"
"I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.”
― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

“Ти все нещо не харесваш.
Тези думи още повече ме натъжиха.
— Харесвам, харесвам някои неща. Разбира се, че харесвам. Не говори така. Дявол да го вземе, защо говориш така?
— Защото не харесваш. Никое училище не ти харесва. Милион неща не харесваш. Милион неща.
— Има неща, които харесвам. Ти грешиш — точно тук грешиш. За какъв дявол трябваше да казваш това? — попитах аз. Братче, колко тъжно ми стана от думите й.
— Защото нищо не харесваш — каза тя. — Кажи ми едно-едничко нещо, което харесваш.
— Едничко ли? Едничко нещо, което харесвам? — казах аз. — Е добре, ще ти кажа.
Лошото беше, че не можех много да се съсредоточа. Понякога е мъчно да се съсредоточиш.
— Значи да ти кажа едно нещо, което много харесвам, нали? — попитах аз.
Тя обаче не ми отговори. Лежеше накриво, далече — чак на другия край на леглото. Най-малко на хиляди мили от мене.
— Хайде, отговори — казах аз. — Нещо, което много ми харесва или нещо, което ей тъй, просто ми харесва?
— Дето много ти харесва.
— Е, добре — казах аз. Но лошото беше, че не можех да се съсредоточа.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye