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A map is a two-dimensional representation with arbitrary symbols and incised lines that decide who is to be our enemy and who is to be our friend, who deserves our love and who deserves our hatred and who, our sheer indifference.
Branching ropes of wisteria climbed up whitewashed walls, aspiring to reach the clouds, hopeful in the way only dreamers are.
When the night kissed your skin, as it always did, you could smell the jasmine on its breath.
The moon, here closer to earth, hung bright and gentle over the rooftops, casting a vivid glow on the narrow ...
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Arriving there is what you are destined for, But do not hurry the journey at all …
But nothing they did or said could be worse than her hatred for herself just then. What was wrong with her? Why could she not answer a simple question like everyone else?
was it also possible to inherit something as intangible and immeasurable as sorrow?
Pain, there was so much pain everywhere and in everyone. The only difference was between those who managed to hide it and those who no longer could.
Adam and Eve shared a tender, ripe, deliciously alluring, aromatic fig,
But, then again, anyone who expects love to be sensible has perhaps never loved.
The places where we were born are the shape of our lives, even when we are away from them.
With a bit of light you can make us do so much. With a promise of love …
when you leave your home for unknown shores, you don’t simply carry on as before; a part of you dies inside so that another part can start all over again.
Always aim for the kind of love that comes from the deep.’
Sea love seeks sea beauty. And you, my heart, deserve sea love, the strong and profound and enchanting type.’
For kindness always is – direct, naive, effortless.
You know what they say, keep the tongue in your mouth a prisoner. Wisdom consists of ten parts: nine parts of silence, one part of words.’
The path of an inherited trauma is random; you never know who might get it, but someone will.
good advice is always annoying and bad advice never is.
I’ve been thinking that you are my country. Is that a strange thing to say? Without you, I don’t have a home in this world; I am a felled tree, my roots severed all round; you can topple me with the touch of a finger.
Because in real life, unlike in history books, stories come to us not in their entirety but in bits and pieces, broken segments and partial echoes, a full sentence here, a fragment there, a clue hidden in between.
If you weep for all the sorrows in this world, in the end you will have no eyes.’
