Joana Margarida

“There isn’t a version of me that could’ve looked away from you.”
― Yael van der Wouden, The Safekeep

“What was joy, anyway. What was the worth of happiness that left behind a crater thrice the size of its impact. What did people who spoke of joy know of what it meant, to sleep and dream only of the whistle of planes and knocks at the door and on windows and to wake with a hand at one's throat— one's own hand, at one's own throat. What did they know of not speaking for days, of not having known the touch of another, never having known, of want and of not having felt the press of skin to one's own, and what did they know of a house that only ever emptied out. Of animals dying and fathers dying and mothers dying and finding bullet holes in the barks of trees right below hearts carved around names of people who weren't there and the bloody lip of a sibling and what did what did she know— of what could she possibly know of what it—”
― Yael van der Wouden, The Safekeep

“(...)parece que não vês que as palavras são rótulos que se pegam às cousas, não são as cousas, nunca saberás como são as cousas, nem sequer que nomes são na realidade os seus, porque os nomes que lhes deste não são mais do que isso, os nomes que lhes deste,(...)”
― José Saramago, Death with Interruptions

“What was joy, anyway. What was the worth of happiness that left behind a crater thrice the size of its impact.”
― Yael van der Wouden, The Safekeep