Jose Eduardo Agualusa Famous Quotes
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However, he began to walk stooped slightly to the left, as though he were being pushed, from within, by a violent gale.
I'm at peace, at last. I fear nothing. I yearn for nothing. I suppose you could call that happiness
So what do you think, Félix -- it is more important to bear witness to beauty, or to denounce horror?
The days slide by as if they were liquid.
He was evil, and he didn't know it. He didn't know what evil was. That is to say, he was pure evil.
The night, like a well, was swallowing stars.
Monsters, show me the monsters: these people out on the street.
My people.
I lived for almost a century in the skin of a man, and I never managed to feel altogether human either.
If, when we are asleep, we can dream of sleeping, can we then, when awake, awaken within a more lucid reality?
The other day an entomologist friend of mine told me that for a beehive to produce a kilo of honey it must gather pollen from five million flowers. Thinking of this extraordinary effort I have been wondering how many books Baudelaire had to read, how many lives he had to live, to write a single line of poetry.
Sometimes, she said, she could recognize a place just by the quality of the light. In Lisbon, the light at the end of spring leans madly over the houses, white and humid, and just a little bit salty. In Rio de Janeiro, in the season that the locals instinctively call 'autumn', and that the Europeans insist disdainfully is just a figment of their imagination, the light becomes gentler, like a shimmer of silk, sometimes accompanied by a humid grayness, which hangs over the streets, and then sinks down gently into the squares and gardens. In the drenched land of the Pantanal in Mato Grosso, really early in the morning, the blue parrots cross the sky and they shake a clear, slow light from their wings, a light that little by little settles on the waters, grows and spreads and seems to sing. In the forests of Taman Negara in Malaysia, the light is like a liquid, which sticks to your skin, and has a taste and a smell. It's noisy in Goa, and harsh. In Berlin the sun is always laughing, at least during those moments when it manages to break through the clouds, like in those ecological stickers against nuclear power. Even in the most unlikely skies, Ângela Lúcia is able to discern shines that mustn't be forgotten; until she visited Scandinavia she'd believed that in that part of the world during the winter months light was nothing but the figment of people's imagination. But no, the clouds would occasionally light up with great flashes of hope. She said this, and stood up, adopting a
In your novels do you lie deliberately or just out of ignorance?"
Laughter. A murmur of approval. The writer hesitated a few seconds. Then counter-attacked:
"I'm a liar by vocation," he shouted. "I lie with joy! Literature is the only chance for a true liar to attain any sort of social acceptance."
Then more soberly, he added - his voice lowered - that the principal difference between a dictatorship and a democracy is that in the former there exists only one truth, the truth as imposed by power, while in free countries every man has the right to defend his own version of events.
Truth, he said, is a superstition.
Reality is painful and imperfect ... That's just the way it is, that's how we distinguish it from dreams. When something seems absolutely lovely we think it can only be a dream, and we pinch ourselves just to be sure we're really not dreaming - if it hurts it's because we're not dreaming. Reality can hurt us, even those moments when it may seem to us to be a dream. You can find everything that exists in the world in books - sometimes truer in colors, and without the real pain of everything that really does exist. Given a choice between life and books, my son, you must choose books
Memory is a landscape watched from the window of a moving train. ( ... ) These things happen right before our very eyes, we know them to be real, but they're so far away we can't touch them. Some are so far, so very far away, and the train moving so fast, that we can't be sure any longer that they really did happen. Maybe we merely dreamed them?
Sometimes they don't write what I mean, they just write what I say.
I know now-I think I probably already knew then- that all lives are exceptional.
Sincerity is almost love.
What life expects of us is that we celebrate.
He reminds me of a guy I met many years ago. He died. A shame, as I'd have really liked to kill him again.
Paradise might have been here; and it is certainly here amid these forests that the Lord God now is resting, recovering from that huge disaster that was the creation of mankind.
Courage isn't contagious; fear is, of course.
I save on food, on water, on fire and on adjetives.
If I still had the space, charcoal, and available walls,
I could compose a great work about forgetting:
a general theory of oblivion.
One of those characters who in Angola are often called 'lost frontiers', because by daylight they look white, and at twilight they are discovered in fact to be half mulatto - from which it might be concluded that sometimes you can understand people better further away form the light.
God weighs a soul on a pair of scales. In one of the dishes is the soul, and in the other, the tears of those who weep for it. If nobody cries, the soul goes down to Hell. If there are enough tears, and they are sufficiently heartfelt, it rises up to Heaven...People who are missed by other people, they are the ones who go to Paradise. Paradise is the space we occupy in other people's hearts.
There are people who from early on reveal a great talent for misfortune. Unhappiness pummels at them like a stoning, every other day, and they accept it with a resigned sigh. Others, meanwhile, have a peculiar propensity for the happiness. Faced with an abyss the latter are attracted by its blueness, the former by its intoxication.
Write and tell me what you have decided. Condemn me to winter, or rescue me from it.
Your
Fradique
When people look at clouds they do not see their real shape, which is no shape at all, or every shape, because they are constantly changing. They see whatever it is that their heart yearns for.
Hope, he joked. Always the last to die.
Foreigner ate with a glowing appetite, as though he weren't tasting the firm flesh of the snapper but its whole life, the years and years slipping between the sudden explosions of a shoal, the whirling of the waters, the thick strands of light that on sunny evenings fall straight down into the blue abyss.
Don't feel sorry for me, condemned to live in winter - I have brought the memory of the sun with me.
I love you, I must love you always.
Fradique
God weighs souls on a pair of scales. In one of the dishes is the soul, and in the other, the tears of those who weep for it. If nobody cries, the soul goes straight down to hell. If there are enough tears and they are sufficiently heartfelt, it rises up to heaven.
I've met a remarkable woman. Oh, my friend, I don't have the words to describe her
everything about her is Light.
I thought he was exaggerating. Where there is light, there are shadows too.
Misery does ever so well in wealthy countries.
Her returned in the evening, drier, sharper, a man with a closer kinship with a thorn bush.
Lies are everywhere. Even nature herself lies. What is camouflage, for instance, but a lie? The chameleon disguises itself as a leaf in order to deceive a poor butterfly. He lies to it saying, Don't worry, my dear, can't you see I'm just a very green leaf waving in the breeze, and then he jets out his tongue at six hundred and twenty-five centimeters a second, and eats it.
If he'd been able to he would have rolled out a rose-petal carpet at her feet. He would have liked to conduct an orchestra of birds to sing as rainbows appeared in the sky, one by one.
Some people are destined to dream (some, indeed, are paid rather well to do so); some are born to work, practical and concrete and tireless; and there are others who are like a river, who flow effortlessly down from source to mouth, hardly straying from its bed.
He takes a deep breath, and opens the door. In my other life I used to know people like that
they're frightened by the sound of wind through the leaves, they can't bear cockroaches, not to mention policemen, lawyers, even dentists. And yet when the dragon bursts into the clearing, opens its mouth and spits fire, they stand up to them. Calm, cool as an angel.