Choobnam

“من از خیلی چیز ها می ترسیدم : از مادیان سپید پدر بزرگ ، از مدیر مدرسه ، از نزدیک شدن وقت نماز ، از قیافه عبوس شنبه. چقدر از شنبه ها بیزار بودم . خوشبختی من از صبح پنجشنبه آغاز می شد . عصر پنجشنبه تکه ای از بهشت بود . شب که می شد در دور ترین خواب هایم طعم صبح جمعه را می چشیدم .”
― سهراب سپهری, هنوز در سفرم...

“I don't believe in ageing. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun. Hence my optimism. And to alter now, cleanly and sanely, I want to shuffle off this loose living randomness: people; reviews; fame; all the glittering scales; and be withdrawn, and concentrated.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary

“ما همچون دانه هاي زيتوني هستيم كه تنها هنگامي جوهر خود را بروز مي دهيم كه در هم شكسته شويم”
― Bohumil Hrabal, تنهایی پرهیاهو

“I think: there at the point where thought joins with me I am able to subtract myself from being, without diminishing, without changing, by means of a metamorphosis which saves me from myself, beyond any point of reference from which I might be seized. It is the property of my thought, not to assure me of existence (as all things do, as a stone does), but to assure me of being in nothingness itself, and to invite me not to be, in order te make me feel my marvelous absence. I think, said Thomas, and this visible, inexpressible, nonexistent Thomas I became meant that henceforth I was never there where I was, and there was not even anything mysterious about it. My existence became entirely that of an absent person who, in every act I performed, produced the same act and did not perform it.”
― Maurice Blanchot, Thomas the Obscure