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Quote by Abraham Verghese

Work

Cutting for Stone

Cutting for Stone is a narrative that intertwines the lives of two brothers born of a secret union between a nun and a surgeon. The story unfolds in the backdrop of a turbulent Africa, focusing on their journey through medical school and the complexities of their personal and professional lives. more

Author

Abraham Verghese
Abraham Verghese

Abraham Verghese is an American writer and physician, renowned for his extensive experience in medicine and his profound literary talent. His works often focus on the relationship between doctors and patients, as well as his deep insights into medical practice. more

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“— Je ne veux pas remettre ça sur le tapis, mais Médée a vraiment dit « agape » cette fois-ci, déclare Deimos. Ella affiche un large sourire amusé. — Amour, on en a déjà discuté, Médée n’a que cinq mois. — Et alors ? Elle est en avance sur tout mortel de son âge, bien sûr. C’est notre fille. — Oui, tu es exceptionnelle ma puce, mais papa dit n’importe quoi. Médée, elle, gazouille, au comble du bonheur d’avoir ses deux parents penchés sur elle.”

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“Seriously? I wouldn't need to be rescued. I would find out which way was downhill and locate the nearest water source to follow or I'd climb high and look for gaps in tree lines due to roads, power cables, or train tracks. At night, I'd look for artificial light sources..." I paused when I noticed the smirk had been totally wiped off Jack's face. "Do you want me to tell you how I'd read the night sky? I can do that, too. Oh, and I also know how to make a fire out of sticks and build a rudimentary shelter. I joined an orienteering club when I was a kid to learn outdoor survival skills, and every Christmas I asked Santa for survival gear." Silence. "Boom." I opened my hand and closed it again, giving Jack my most satisfied smile. "Mic drop.”

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“After a while Mary said, “Zsadist?” “Yeah?” “What are those markings?” His frowned and flicked his eyes over to her, thinking, as if she didn’t know? But then . . . well, she had been a human. Maybe she didn’t. “They’re slave bands. I was . . . a slave.” “Did it hurt when they were put on you?” “Yes.” “Did the same person who cut your face give them to you?” “No, my owner’s hellren did that. My owner . . . she put the bands on me. He was the one who cut my face.” “How long were you a slave?” “A hundred years.” “How did you get free?” “Phury. Phury got me out. That’s how he lost his leg.” “Were you hurt while you were a slave?” Z swallowed hard. “Yes.” “Do you still think about it?” “Yes.” He looked down at his hands, which suddenly were in pain for some reason. Oh, right. He’d made two fists and was squeezing them so tightly his fingers were about to snap off at the knuckles. “Does slavery still happen?” “No. Wrath outlawed it. As a mating gift to me and Bella.” “What kind of slave were you?” Zsadist shut his eyes. Ah, yes, the question he didn’t want to answer. For a while it was all he could do to force himself to stay in the chair. But then, in a falsely level voice, he said, “I was a blood slave. I was used by a female for blood.” The quiet after he spoke bore down on him, a tangible weight. “Zsadist? Can I put my hand on your back?” His head did something that was evidently a nod, because Mary’s gentle palm came down lightly on his shoulder blade. She moved it in a slow, easy circle. “Those are the right answers,” she said. “All of them.” He had to blink fast as the fire in the furnace’s window became blurry. “You think?” he said hoarsely. “No. I know.”

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