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Quote by David Peace

“The smell of blood. The smell of sweat. The smell of tears. The smell of Algipan. You want to smell these smells for the rest of your life.”

Quote by David Peace

Book:The Damned Utd
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Work

The Damned Utd

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Author

David Peace
David Peace

David Peace is a British writer renowned for his fiction and non-fiction works. Born in 1967, Peace has made a name for himself with his distinctive narrative style, which intertwines historical and contemporary themes. His writing frequently examines the intricacies of human nature and societal issues. more

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“«Εύχομαι να μη σε είχα συναντήσει ποτέ!» του είπε με χαμηλή φωνή. «Έτσι δεν θα υπήρχε λόγος να θέλω να σ’ εντυπωσιάζω. Δεν θα υπήρχε λόγος να σε θέλω. Δεν θα υπήρχε λόγος να κλαίω για σένα μέχρι να με πάρει ο ύπνος, ούτε να πονάω. Δεν θα είχε ραγίσει η καρδιά μου. Δεν θα με πλήγωναν οι ξεχασμένες υποσχέσεις που κάποτε ανταλλάξαμε. Δεν θα χρειαζόταν να υποκρίνομαι πως δεν με νοιάζει. Δεν θα χρειαζόταν ν’ αντέξω όλα όσα μου έχεις κάνει και που με άδειασαν. Δεν θα χρειαζόταν να σ’ αγαπάω.»”

LoveTearsLove StoryDramatic Moment
Book:Μέχρι το τέλος του χρόνου
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“Then his tears came once more, and feeling cold he went into his dressing-room to look for something to throw around his shoulders. But he had lost control of his hand so that it moved like a brainless creature and completely failed to carry out the small mathematical operation which consisted, because the inside of the wardrobe was dark, in fumbling a way through the different velvets, silks and satins of his mother's outmoded dresses which, since she had given up wearing them, for many years, she had put away in this piece of furniture, until it could feel the wooden jamb, far back, which separated these garments from his own, and, on reaching the second rough-surfaced coat, to take it from the hanger from which it depended. Instead, it tore down the first piece of fabric it encountered. This happened to be a black velvet coat, trimmed with braid, and lined with cherry-coloured satin and ermine, which, mauled by the violence of his attack, he pulled into the room like a young maiden whom a conqueror has seized and dragged behind him by the hair. In just such a way did Jean now brandish it, but even before his eyes had sent their message to his brain, he was aware of an indefinable fragrance in the velvet, a fragrance that had greeted him when, at ten years old, he had run to kiss his mother—in those days still young, still brilliant and still happy—when she was all dressed up and ready to go out, and flung his arms about her waist, the velvet crushed within his hand, the braid tickling his cheeks, while his lips, pressed to her forehead, breathed in the glittering sense of all the happiness she seemed to hold in keeping for him.”

TearsSmellsInvoluntary MemoryVelvet Coat
Book:Jean Santeuil
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