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Elif Shafak Quotes

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Famous Elif Shafak Quotes

“Нефритенозелените ѝ очи, обикновено широко отворени и изпълнени с пламенна интелигентност, от време на време се присвиваха и се превръщаха в две резки на пълно безразличие, присъщо само на три вида хора: безнадеждно лековерните, безнадеждно отчуждените и безнадеждно обнадеждените. Тъй като Зелиха не спадаше към никой от тях, безразличието ѝ - колкото и мимолетно да бе - бе трудно обяснимо. То прикриваше като с балдахин душата ѝ, за да я направи безчувствена като след упойка, но след миг се изпаряваше, оставайки Зелиха сама в тялото ѝ.”

“When you are in trouble or at your lowest point, and have no one in whom to confide, a hawthorn would be the right choice. There is a reason why hawthorns are home to fairies and known to protect pots of treasure. For wisdom, try a beech; for intelligence, a pine; for bravery, a rowan; for generosity, a hazel; for joy, a juniper; and for when you need to learn to let go of what you cannot control, a birch with its white-silver bark, peeling and shedding layers like old skin. Then again, if it's love you're after, or love you have lost, come to the fig, always the fig.”

“To the one in the skies, this city must look like a scintillating pattern of speckled glows in all directions, like a firecracker going off amid thick darkness. Right now the urban pattern glowing here is in hues of orange, ginger, and ochre. It is a configuration of sparkles, each dot a light lit by someone awake at this hour. From where the Celestial Gaze is situated, from that high above, all these sporadically lit bulbs must seem in perfect harmony, constantly flickering, as if coding a cryptic message to God.”

“Većinu onoga što smo kroz godine shvatili u životu naučili smo interakcijom s različitim i često provokativnim mišljenjima, susretom s dotad nam nepoznatim informacijama, kritičkim primjedbama i znanjem, koje smo zatim interno obradili uzgajajući sjemenke razgovora, čitanja i promatranja u spoznaju.”

“Hasan, the Begger: Believe it or not, they call this purgatory on earth “holy-suffering”. I am a leper stuck in limbo. Neither the dead nor the living want me among them. Mothers point me out on the streets to scare their misbehaving little ones, and children throw stones at me. Artisans chase me from their storefronts to ward off the bad luck that follows me everywhere, and pregnant women turn their faces away whenever they set eyes on me, fearing that their babies will be born defec-tive. None of these people seem to realize that as keen as they are to avoid me, I am far keener to avoid them and their pitiful stares. Friday is the best day of the week to beg except when it is Ramadan, in which case the whole month is quite lucrative. The last day of Ramadan is by far the best time to make money. That is when even the hopeless penny-pinchers race to give alms, keen to compensate for all their sins, past and present. Once a year, people don't turn away from beggars. To the contrary, they specifically look for one, the more miserable the better. So profound is their need to show off how generous and charitable they are, not only do they race to give us alms, but for that single day they almost love us. I’ve realized that the trees and I had something in common. A tree shedding its leaves in autumn resembled a man shedding his limbs in the final stages of leprosy. I am naked tree. My skin, my organs, my face are falling apart. Every day another part of my body abandons me. And for me, unlike the trees, there would be no spring in which I would blossom. What I lost, I lost forever. When people looks at me, they don’t see who I am but what I am missing. Whenever they places a coin in my bowl, they do so with amazing speed and avoid any eye contacts, as if my gaze is contagious. In their eyes I am worse than a thief or a murderer. As much as they disapproves of such outlaws, they don’t treat them as if they are invisible. When it comes to me, however, all they see is death staring them in the face. That's what scares them--to recognize that death could be this close and this ugly.”

“You are too timid for me. You care too much about what other people think. But you know what? Because you are so desperate to win the approval of others, you'll never get rid of their criticisms, no matter how hard you try. You say you want to travel the path, but you don't want to sacrifice anything to that end. Money, fame, power, lavishness, or carnal pleasure - whatever it is that one holds most dear in life, one should dispose of that first.”

“There was something childlike in the way grown-ups had a need for stories. They held a naive belief that by telling an inspiring anecdote-the right fable at the right time-they could lift their children's moods, motivate them to great achievements and simply change reality. There was no point in telling them that life was more complicated than that and words less magical than they presumed.”

“i have often wondered what resides in an accent. is it a presence - an identity, a trajectory, a history? or is it rather an absence - an estrangement, a withdrawal, a blank space refusing to be filled? and are we immigrants synonymous to our accents? or are we, or can we ever aspire to be, more than that? this is not to deny that our accents are fundamentally important to who we are, and they are near and dear to our hearts. they are an inextricable trace of the paths we have travelled, the loves we have loved and never forgotten, the scars we still carry and which still hurt. but that doesn't mean we are from our accents.”

“Ironically, [living in] communities of the like - minded is one of the greatest dangers of today ́s globalized world. And it ́s happening everywhere, among liberals and conservatives, agnostics and believers, the rich and the poor, East and West alike. We tend to form clusters based on similarity, and then we produce stereotypes about other clusters of people. In my opinion, one way of transcending these cultural ghettos is through the art of storytelling”

“In the Ottoman times, there were itinerant storytellers called "meddah. " They would go to coffee houses, where they would tell a story in front of an audience, often improvising. With each new person in the story, the meddah would change his voice, impersonating that character. Everybody could go and listen, you know ordinary people, even the sultan, Muslims and non-Muslims. Stories cut across all boundaries. Like "The Tales of Nasreddin Hodja," which were very popular throughout the Middle East, North Africa, the Balkans and Asia. Today, stories continue to transcend borders”

“kimine kafi gelir bu ten sureti böyle doğar, böyle sırlanır kimine dar gelir bu ten sureti hep arar, savrulur kiminin imanı korkudur "ve inne rabbeke leşediydül'ikaab" (gerçekten senin tanrı'nın azabı çok şiddetlidir) kiminin imanı safi aşktır "ve ma rabbüke bizzallamin lil'abiyd" (rabbin kullarına asla zulmedici değildir) her kim ki aşk için, aşkla yaşar aşkı arar, aşkla yanar işbu vücud şehrinin kapısını aralar.”

“Armanoush le guardò una per una una, confusa. Era sollevata nel vedere che non avevano preso male la storia, ma a quel punto cominciava a dubitare che l'avessero davvero compresa. Certo, non si erano rifiutate di crederle e neppure l'avevano attaccata con argomentazioni contrarie: anzi, l'avevano ascoltata con grande attenzione e sembravano colpite, Ma era tutta lì la loro commiserazione? E, di preciso, lei cosa si era spettata da loro? Armanoush non sapeva cosa pensare, e si chiedeva se parlandone con un gruppo di intellettuali avrebbe ottenuto una reazione diversa. Lentamente si rese conto che forse si era aspettata un'ammissione di colpa, se non addirittura delle scuse. Però quelle scuse non erano venute, e non perché le sue ospiti non fossero partecipi, ma perché non vedevano nessun collegamento fra loro e il crimine che era stato perpetrato. Come armena, Armanoush incarnava lo spirito della propria gente da generazioni e generazioni, mentre a quanto pareva il popolo turco non possedeva la stessa nozione di continuità con la propria ascendenza. Armeni e turchi vivevano in ordinamenti temporali diversi. Per i primi, il tempo era un continuum in cui il passato viveva nel presente e il presente generava il futuro. Per i secondi, invece, il tempo sembrava essere una linea spezzata: a un certo punto il passato finiva, e da quel punto cominciava il presente, e in mezzo non c'era altro che uno strappo.”

“Some people make the mistake of confusing "submission" with "weakness", whereas it is anything but. Submission is a form of peaceful acceptance of the terms of the universe including the things we are currently unable to change or comprehend. I accepted the fact that there are things beyond my limits. I can only see some parts, like floating fragments from a movie, but the bigger scheme is beyond my comprehension.”

“Intellect and love are made of two different materials. Intellect ties people in knots and risks nothing, but love dissolves all tangles and risks everything. Intellect is always cautious and advises, “Beware too much ecstasy,” whereas Love says, “Oh never mind. Take the plunge!” Intellect does not easily break down, whereas love can effortlessly reduce itself to rubble. But treasures are hidden amongst ruins. A broken heart hides treasure. (5)”

“- The past is an interpretation. The future is an illusion. The world does not move through time as if it were a straight line, proceeding from the post to the future. Instead Time moves through and within us, in endless spirals. Eternity does not mean infinite time, but simply timelessness. If You want to experience eternal illumination, put the past and the future out of your mind and remain within the present moment.”