Imen aloui

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وحي القلم - الجزء...
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  (page 150 of 357)
Oct 15, 2016 03:01PM

 
سجينة طهران
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by Marina Nemat (Goodreads Author)
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Imen aloui Imen aloui said: " سجينة طهران كم هي مؤلمة تلك الأحداث كم هو مؤلم أن تعيش كل هاته المعاناة و أنت مظلوم و في عمر الزهور أن تنتقل من مراهقة حالمة إلى سجينة سياسية تعيش شتى أنواع العذاب و كوابيس الألم المتكررة .... للأسف لم أستطع إكمال الرواية بحثت و لم أجد لأن النسخة الك ...more "

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  (page 170 of 339)
Jan 02, 2016 08:06AM

 
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Nicholas Sparks
“I finally understood what true love meant...love meant that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be.”
Nicholas Sparks, Dear John

Jonathan Safran Foer
“You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.”
Jonathan Safran Foer

أحمد خيري العمري
“كان من المؤلم جداً أنّ الناس لا يصلون... ولكنه كان من المؤلم أكثر، أنهم إذا صلّوا، ربما لا يتغيّرون”
د.أحمد خيري العمري, المهمة غير المستحيلة

Abu Muhammad Ali ibn Hazm
“ينصح المحبين بأن يتحاكموا في نظراتهم حتى تكتشف ما يكنونه وذلك لأن العين في رأيه " باب للنفس الشارع وهي المنقبة عن سرائرها , والمعبرة عن ضمائرها والمعربة عن بواطنها ”
ابن حزم الأندلسي, طوق الحمامة في الألفة والألاف

Jonathan Safran Foer
“He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

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