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“لماذا يكتب المرء إن لم يكن من أجل أن يجمع القطع مع بعضها بعضاً؟”
― Eduardo Hughes Galeano, The Book of Embraces

“Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me. It is the rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what; making a scene come right; making a character come together. From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.”
― Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being: A Collection of Autobiographical Writing

“حسبي وحسبكُ أن تظلي دائماً سراً يمزقني وليسَ يُقالُ”
― نزار قباني, الرسم بالكلمات

“My father spoke with his hands. He was deaf. His voice was in his hands. And his hands contained his memories.”
― Myron Uhlberg, Hands of My Father: A Hearing Boy, His Deaf Parents, and the Language of Love