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Quote by Alice Poon

“Yearning endlessly for that surreal rainbow was like addiction to opium. It was a poison pill, yet without it life would be all too vapid and bland.”

Quote by Alice Poon

Book:The Earthly Blaze
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The Earthly Blaze

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Alice Poon

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“कभी कभी मेरे दिल मैं ख्याल आता हैं कि ज़िंदगी तेरी जुल्फों कि नर्म छांव मैं गुजरने पाती तो शादाब हो भी सकती थी। यह रंज-ओ-ग़म कि सियाही जो दिल पे छाई हैं तेरी नज़र कि शुआओं मैं खो भी सकती थी। मगर यह हो न सका और अब ये आलम हैं कि तू नहीं, तेरा ग़म तेरी जुस्तजू भी नहीं। गुज़र रही हैं कुछ इस तरह ज़िंदगी जैसे, इससे किसी के सहारे कि आरझु भी नहीं. न कोई राह, न मंजिल, न रौशनी का सुराग भटक रहीं है अंधेरों मैं ज़िंदगी मेरी. इन्ही अंधेरों मैं रह जाऊँगा कभी खो कर मैं जानता हूँ मेरी हम-नफस, मगर यूंही कभी कभी मेरे दिल मैं ख्याल आता है”

Unrequited LoveUnfulfilled Love
Book:Talkhiyaan / تلخیاں
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“चलो इक बार फिर से अजनबी बन जाएँ हम दोनों। न मैं तुम से कोई उम्मीद रखूँ दिल-नवाज़ी की। न तुम मेरी तरफ़ देखो ग़लत-अंदाज़ नज़रों से। न मेरे दिल की धड़कन लड़खड़ाए मेरी बातों से। न ज़ाहिर हो तुम्हारी कश्मकश का राज़ नज़रों से। तुम्हें भी कोई उलझन रोकती है पेश-क़दमी से। मुझे भी लोग कहते हैं कि ये जल्वे पराए हैं। मिरे हमराह भी रुस्वाइयाँ हैं मेरे माज़ी की। तुम्हारे साथ भी गुज़री हुई रातों के साए हैं। तआ'रुफ़ रोग हो जाए तो उस का भूलना बेहतर। तअ'ल्लुक़ बोझ बन जाए तो उस को तोड़ना अच्छा। वो अफ़्साना जिसे अंजाम तक लाना न हो मुमकिन उसे इक ख़ूबसूरत मोड़ दे कर छोड़ना अच्छा। चलो इक बार फिर से अजनबी बन जाएँ हम दोनों।”

DivorceAbandonmentStrangenessUnfulfilled Love
Author:Sahir Ludhianvi
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“If I am in a state of becoming, it has no endpoint. I imagine replacing the memories of everyone I've ever spoken to with the impression that they have only ever seen me as a being clothed in light. In the early part of the twentieth century, homophobes and eugenicists joined forces to study what they called inversion, an early term for homosexuality, gender nonconformity, and transness. They believed they could read and police queerness on the body. Maybe this is why I don't want to make myself legible. I want to erase the meanings that have been ascribed to my breath, to my sweat, to my hair and fat and skin. I trace the green veins in my neck that branch down into my breasts as feathers. I am painting myself as the bird that, to the world outside this room, does not exist. I draw myself clothed in wings and tell myself that even the angels are sexless.”

GenderDivinityTransTransmascTrans Bodies
Book:The Thirty Names of Night
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“I do not believe in the creed professed by the Jewish church, by the Roman church, by the Greek church, by the Turkish church, by the Protestant church, nor by any church that I know of. My own mind is my own church. All national institutions of churches, whether Jewish, Christian, or Turkish, appear to me no other than human inventions set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit.”

ReligionChurchPowerProfitGreekJewishTurkishRomanCreedProtestantEnslaveMonopolizeHuman Invention
Book:The age of reason
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“Romanticism embodied "a new and restless spirit, seeking violently to burst through old and cramping forms, a nervous preoccupation with perpetually changing inner states of consciousness, a longing for the unbounded and the indefinable, for perpetual movement and change, an effort to return to the forgotten sources of life, a passionate effort at self-assertion both individual and collective, a search after means of expressing an unappeasable yearning for unattainable goals.”

SpiritPassionGoalRomanticismYearing
Book:The Roots of Romanticism
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“He remembered a version of himself untrammeled by expectation, unimpeded by Ego. He had suffered in the many years since then, seeking to return to that original self, if, in fact, it ever existed. And yet, he was helpless but to regard that unmistakable fear that gripped him in his dream as a sign that his unevenness lent him now to utter incongruity with this specter of past.”

SufferingEgoLiberationPurityEmancipationSymmetryPast And PresentLoss Of InnocenceIncongruityRemembrance Of Things PastSpecter
Book:Sinew of the Social Species
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“Poets claim that we recapture for a moment the self that we were long ago when we enter some house or garden in which we used to live in our youth. But these are most hazardous pilgrimages, which end as often in disappointment as in success. It is in ourselves that we should rather seek to find those fixed places, contemporaneous with different years. And great fatigue followed by a good night's rest can to a certain extent help us to do so. For in order to make us descend into the most subterranean galleries of sleep, where no reflexion from overnight, no gleam of memory comes to light up the interior monologue—if the latter does not itself cease—fatigue followed by rest will so thoroughly turn over the soil and penetrate the bedrock of our bodies that we discover down there, where our muscles plunge and twist in their ramifications and breathe in new life, the garden where we played in our childhood. There is no need to travel in order to see it again; we must dig down inwardly to discover it. What once covered the earth is no longer above but beneath it; a mere excursion does not suffice for a visit to the dead city: excavation is necessary also. But we shall see how certain fugitive and fortuitous impressions carry us back even more effectively to the past, with a more delicate precision, with a more light-winged, more immaterial, more headlong, more unerring, more immortal flight, than these organic dislocations.”

MemoryRemembranceProustPoeticsRemembrance Of Things Past
Book:The Guermantes Way
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