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“عندما نعيش لذواتنا, تبدو الحياة قصيرة ضئيلة تبدأ من حيث نعى, وتنتهى بانتهاء عمرنا المحدود. أما عندما نعيش لغيرنا, أى عندما نعيش لفكرة, فإن الحياة تبدو طويلة , عميقة. تبدأ من حيث بدأت الإنسانية وتمتد بعد مفارقتنا لوجه هذه الأرض , إننا تربح أضغاف عمرنا الفردى فى هذه الحالة
نربحها حقيقة لا وهماً”
― أفراح الروح
نربحها حقيقة لا وهماً”
― أفراح الروح
“I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.
As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong.
“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.”
― The Song of Achilles
If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.
As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong.
“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.”
― The Song of Achilles
“عندمآ نفجع بِ الفقد تُثقب أروآحُنآ ,
هذآ مآيحدُث بالضبط , شيء يشبه النُدبة غير المرئية ,
عآلقة في أعمق بُؤرة في الروح , تبث أغنيآت حزينة في الفضآء
تتآلف مع أغنيآت أخرى ’ وأخرى ..
أقدآرنآ هي مُحصلة تلك الأغاني التي أطلقنآهآ في الفضـآء !
كم كآنت أغنيتي أليمة !”
― عائشة تنزل إلى العالم السفلي
هذآ مآيحدُث بالضبط , شيء يشبه النُدبة غير المرئية ,
عآلقة في أعمق بُؤرة في الروح , تبث أغنيآت حزينة في الفضآء
تتآلف مع أغنيآت أخرى ’ وأخرى ..
أقدآرنآ هي مُحصلة تلك الأغاني التي أطلقنآهآ في الفضـآء !
كم كآنت أغنيتي أليمة !”
― عائشة تنزل إلى العالم السفلي
“أعاني .. في لحظة يقظتي، من قلة حساسية العالم. يوجعني الضوء، والرائحة، والصوت، وكل ما يفكك وحدتي”
― عائشة تنزل إلى العالم السفلي
― عائشة تنزل إلى العالم السفلي
“Achilles was looking at me. “Your hair never quite lies flat, here.” He touched my head, just behind my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how I like it.”
My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said.
“I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”
“No,” I said.
“This surely then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?”
“That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke.
“And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”
“You have.”
“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.”
“You did not.”
“There is this too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.”
I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.”
― The Song of Achilles
My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said.
“I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”
“No,” I said.
“This surely then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?”
“That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke.
“And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”
“You have.”
“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.”
“You did not.”
“There is this too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.”
I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.”
― The Song of Achilles
صالون الأدب الروسي
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