Bilal

“rainy afternoon on the eastern slope of Montjuïc, looking at the sea through a forest of incomprehensible mausoleums, a forest of crosses and gravestones carved with skulls and faces of children with no lips or eyes, a place that stank of death; and the silhouettes of about twenty adults that I could remember only as black suits that were dripping with rain, and my father’s hand holding mine too tightly, as if by doing so he could stop his weeping, while a priest’s empty words fell into that marble tomb into which three faceless gravediggers pushed a gray coffin. The downpour slithered like melted wax over the coffin, and I thought I heard my mother’s voice calling me from within, begging me to free her from that prison of stone and darkness, but all I could do was tremble and ask my father in a voiceless whisper not to hold my hand so tight, tell him he was hurting me, and that smell of fresh earth, earth of ash and rain, was devouring everything, a smell of death and emptiness.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

“He hardly kept in touch with his siblings or the rest of the family, whom he referred to as strangers. He hadn’t married and he seldom left the grounds of his mansion, of which he occupied only the top floor. There he had set up his office, where he worked feverishly, writing articles and columns for various newspapers and magazines in Madrid and Barcelona, translating technical texts from German and French, copyediting encyclopedias and school textbooks. Miquel Moliner suffered from that affliction of those who feel guilty when not working; although he respected and even envied the leisure others enjoyed, he fled from it. Far from gloating about his manic work ethic, he would joke about his obsessive activity and dismiss it as a minor form of cowardice. “While you’re working, you don’t have to look life in the eye.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

“He was unaware that tears had begun streaming from his eyes. Viewed under a microscope, emotional tears look different from those we produce as a reflex to strong winds or chopped onions, which prevent our eyes from drying out, or irritants from entering. Yet as far as we know, crying is unknown in the animal kingdom—it’s uniquely human. Wherever we are from, whatever language we speak, all humans cry. From that perspective, Carl had not been human for many years, since the day he had forgotten how to cry.”
― Carsten Henn, The Door-to-Door Bookstore

“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