Bilal

“Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it’s an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

“يا رَبِّ إِن عَظُمَت ذُنوبي كَثرَةً
فَلَقَد عَلِمتُ بِأَنَّ عَفوَكَ أَعظَمُ
إِن كانَ لا يَرجوكَ إِلّا مُحسِنٌ
فَبِمَن يَلوذُ وَيَستَجيرُ المُجرِمُ
أَدعوكَ رَبِّ كَما أَمَرتَ تَضَرُّعاً
فَإِذا رَدَدتَ يَدي فَمَن ذا يَرحَمُ
ما لي إِلَيكَ وَسيلَةٌ إِلا الرَجا
وَجَميلُ عَفوِكَ ثُمَّ أَنّي مُسلِمُ”
― أبو نواس, ديوان أبي نواس

“My dear, if God had wished to give me wider hips, I might even have given birth to you: that’s how well I know you. Pay attention to me. Throw off those thoughts and get some fresh air. Waiting is the rust of the soul.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

“Day was dawning when I reached home, dragging myself in that absurd loaned suit through damp streets that shone with a scarlet hue. I found my father asleep in his dining-room armchair, with a blanket over his legs and his favorite book open in his hands—a copy of Voltaire’s Candide, which he reread a couple of times a year, the only times I heard him laugh heartily. I observed him: his hair was gray, thinning, and the skin on his face had begun to sag around his cheekbones. I looked at that man whom I had once imagined almost invincible; he now seemed fragile, defeated without knowing it. Perhaps we were both defeated. I leaned over to cover him with the blanket he had been promising to give away to charity for years, and I kissed his forehead, as if by doing so I could protect him from the invisible threads that kept him away from me, from that tiny apartment, and from my memories, as if I believed that with that kiss I could deceive time and convince it to pass us by, to return some other day, some other life.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind