Antonia Ivanova

“Now you just dig them in front. They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there-and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end. Listen! Listen!”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

“Болестта е израз на това, че човекът е грешен, виновен или нездрав - болестта е микрокосмическото последствие от грехопадението. Тези описания нямат абсолютно нищо общо с идеята за възмезди¬ето, с тях искаме да покажем само, че докато има дял в полярността, човекът има дял и във вината, болестта и смъртта. В момента, в който осъзнае за себе си тези основни факти, те загубват своя отрицателен привкус. Единствено отказът да ги приемем, оценката им и борбата ни срещу тях ги превръща в страховити врагове.”
― Торвалд Детлефсен, Болестта като път

“Сълзите рукват по бузите му, по бузите ми, смесват се с брашнения прах по лицето, вода, сол и брашно, и омесват първия хляб на скръбта. Хляба, който никога на свършва, Хляба на тъгата, който ще ни храни през всички следващи години.”
― Георги Господинов, Физика на тъгата

“The whole town had instantly gone to bed; the only noise now was barking dogs. How could I ever sleep? Thousands of mosquitoes had already bitten all of us on chest and arms and ankles. Then a bright idea came to me: I jumped up on the steel roof of the car and stretched out flat on my back. Still there was no breeze, but the steel had an element of coolness in it and dried my back of sweat, clotting up thousands of dead bugs into cakes on my skin, and I realized the jungle takes you over and you become it. Lying on the top of the car with my face to the black sky was like lying in a closed trunk on a summer night. For the first time in my life the weather was not something that touched me, that caressed me, froze or sweated me, but became me.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road