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the journey of words

plage de sidi kaouki by gawrya on Flickr.

plage de sidi kaouki by gawrya on Flickr.

Time After Time

"Time After Time" by Miles Davis [The Essential Miles Davis, 2001]

“I don’t know, I feel like this isn’t the real world. The people, the scene: they just don’t seem real to me.”
Midori rested an elbow on the bar and looked at me. “There was something like that in a Jim Morrison song, I’m pretty sure.”
 “‘People are strange when you’re a stranger.’”

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (Vintage, 2003)

Don’t let thoughts of me hold you back. Just do what you want to do. Otherwise, I might end up taking you with me, and that is the one thing I don’t want to do. I don’t want to interfere with your life.

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (Vintage, 2003)

You who are on the verge of  leaving
Spare a -flash of your consciousness
For the ones who are saying farewell

Salah El Ouadie, from “You,” translated from the French by Hafsa Bekri-Lamrani, Prague Writers’ Festival (2014)

Oh the sweetness of flowers in memory of caresses
And the fiery lava flowing
Slowly from your eyes
Slowly into my veins
A visage in the crowd
Among so many others multiplied by our looks
You who could have been another
And who cancels green wood memories
In my burned out autumn

Fatéma Chahid, “Escape,” translated from the French by Hafsa Bekri-Lamrani, Prague Writers’ Festival (2014)

One day
You will want to find
My loving eyes
My warm almonds
The shadow of my heart
My lavender smile
My ivory snow teeth
The sap of my seasons
The flowers of my tenderness
My night butterflies
And my golden cries
In the sea gardens
Of our purple desires

Would be gone
To those lands with no swamps
Where love freshly painted
Bears summer’s pink
And winter’s jasmine
You will dwell there
With arms stretched
In front of my closed door
With a panting heart
Like an injured bird
With a silver dagger in the eyes
And blood will stop beating your shore

Fatéma Chahid, “A Closed Door,” translated from the French by Hafsa Bekri-Lamrani, Prague Writers’ Festival (2014)

That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things (Penguin Books, 2003)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

“Morning is my favorite time of day,” said Naoko. “It’s like everything’s starting out fresh and new. I begin to get sad around noontime, and I hate it when the sun goes down. I live with those same feelings day after day.”

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (Vintage, 2003)

An autumnal summer on the hills is like a prose poem. The breeze is
a gentle rhythm I feel but do not hear in the modest little trees, and the
yellowish plants are peeling images, and eloquence provokes similes
with its cunning verbs. The only celebration on these mountain paths
is provided by the lively sparrows, who flit between sense and nonsense.
Nature is a body divesting itself of trivial adornment until the figs,
grapes and pomegranates ripen and the rain awakens forgotten
desires. ‘If it weren’t for my mysterious need for poetry, I wouldn’t need
anything,’ says the poet, whose enthusiasm has waned so his mistakes
have become less frequent. He walks because the doctors have advised
him to walk, with no particular goal, to train the heart in a kind of
indifference necessary for good health. Any idea that occurs to him will
be purely gratuitous. The summer only rarely lends itself to verse. The
summer is a prose poem which takes no interest in the eagles circling
high above.

Mahmoud Darwish, “Like a prose poem,” A River Dies of Thirst. (Archipelago Books, 2009)