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Quote by Francis Marion Crawford

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For the Blood is the Life and Other Stories

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Francis Marion Crawford
Francis Marion Crawford

Francis Marion Crawford was an American writer known for his adventure and detective novels. His works are characterized by historical settings and complex character relationships, which have won him a large following among readers. more

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“He said he'd hurt himself against a wall or had fallen down. But there was probably some other reason for the wounded, the bandaged shoulder. With a rather abrupt gesture, reaching for a shelf to bring down some photographs he wanted to look at, the bandage came came undone and a little blood ran. I did it up again, taking my time over the binding; he wasn't in pain and I liked looking at the blood. It was a thing of my love, that blood. When he left, I found, in front of his chair, a bloody rag, part of the dressing, a rag to be thrown straight into the garbage; and I put it to my lips and kept it there a long while- the blood of love against my lips.”

LovePoetryBlood
Author:C.P. Cavafy
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“A brilliant sunset of pink and orange painted the sky to his right as they escaped from the castle grounds. He noticed the absence of the deep red of blood in the lovely sky’s scenery. His familiarity with the color was unnatural. It was found nowhere else in nature, almost as if it had never been meant for humans to see. To his left, the impending dusk loomed, and Satya found comfort in its familiar embrace.”

BloodSunsetSelf ReflectionSelf LoathingMorally GreyComplex CharactersMorally Grey MmcMorally GrayMorally Grey Man
Book:The Paragon
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“Assisti a tudo, gotas de suor formando-se na testa. Queria dizer para pararem, mas não tinha voz. Estava emudecida, os meus dedos procurando em vão uma fenda que já não existia. Senti lágrimas nos olhos quando vi a explosão no ecrã. Fechei os olhos por momentos, e, mesmo assim, vi crianças que morriam queimadas nas ruas estreitas onde brincavam, ruas paralelas à da imagem inicial; as mães, arranhando a própria cara, que gritavam pelos filhos que não mais iriam ver; velhos esfarrapados, a boca aberta num grito perante os pedaços de corpos humanos e animais, emaranhados no fim. Vi um edifício explodir, fragmentos pesados em todas as direcções, acertando em formigas de movimentos velozes. Só que não eram formigas! Onde estava a compaixão? A empatia? E o cumprimento das convenções assinadas, das regras?”

BloodTerrorHorror StorySanguePortuguese AuthorFog Of WarAutora PortuguesaNévoa Da Guerra
Book:Sangue: uma antologia portuguesa
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