Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

“This was it. Together. Forever. As we left it all behind, the sun warmed my back, lighting the way before us. I knew of no better omen.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Finale

“And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me?
Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.”
― Clarice Lispector

“Give us strength, oh Lord, to let our children starve.”
― Roald Dahl, The Great Automatic Grammatizator And Other Stories

“Then starting home, he walked toward the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat.”
― Truman Capote, In Cold Blood

“Why then should money be blamed for all the dirt and crimes it causes? For is love less filthy - love which creates life?”
― Émile Zola, L'Argent

“And, in the warm silence, in the peaceful solitude of the study, Clotilde smiled down at the baby who was still sucking - his little arm in the air, pointing upwards, a symbol of hope and life.”
― Émile Zola, Le Docteur Pascal

“So they bring our poor Andreas into the vestry, and unfortunately he's no longer capable of speech, all he can do is reach for the left inside pocket of his jacket where he has the money he owes the little creditress, and he says: 'Miss Thérèse!' - and he sighs once, and he dies.
May God grant us all, all of us drinkers, such a good and easy death!”
― Joseph Roth, The Legend of The Holy Drinker

“And this is where I'll end, before I know what happens next.”
― Shannon Hale, Dangerous

“Even the formal measure of the Seasons seemed suspended in the wintry silence.”
― Anthony Powell, A Dance to the Music of Time: 4th Movement

“But at least it made one realize that life still held infinite possibilities for change.”
― Barbara Pym, Quartet in Autumn

“The timing of her welds, the blinking of the arc, the light touch that held two parts together and was then withdrawn, the patience and the quickness, the generation of blinding flares and small pencil-shots of smoke: these acts, qualities, and their progress, like the repetitions in the hymns that the women sang on the line, made a kind of quiet thunder that rolled through all things, and that, in Paulette's deepest wishes, shot across the Pacific in performance of a miracle she dared not even name - though that miracle was not to be hers.”
― Mark Helprin, The Pacific and Other Stories