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Quote by Olga Tokarczuk

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House of Day, House of Night

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Olga Tokarczuk

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“He had been in New York the whole year managing his father's winery and office in lower Manhattan, but now he'd come home by train for Christmas--and the world was wonderful. Three thousand miles was nothing, you got on a train, you had your own private little room, you changed at Chicago, you ate great meals in the diner, you read mystery stories and newspapers in the club car, and then all of a sudden there you were back in Fresno, and there everybody was, standing on the station platform waiting for you. Who could ask for anything more?”

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Book:Places Where I've Done Time
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“I open the window to let the fresh air in, to let the breeze penetrate the spaces between my ribs and take the opportunity to cleanse me from within. Sounds erupt from the outside: seagulls crying, horses neighing, and waves crashing wildly against the cliffs. The dog’s howls are drowned out by ships’ horns. For those who live in a big city, these noises might seem like evidence of stillness. Silence, for some, is synonymous with human absence, by which they refer, especially, to the lack of articulated words, the silent of tongues. But on this piece of land, every moment forms part of an instrument. Here, every whisper unfolds into a complex melody that sees you in the front row of an impromptu concert.”

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Book:Chilco
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“She was gracious if oddly shy with his friends when they came to visit; she listened eagerly as women spoke to her of their pregnancy and childbirth experiences, of which they were happy to speak, and at length; the Playwright heard his wife tell one of these women that her own mother had once told her she'd loved being pregnant, it's the only time a woman truly feels at home in her body, and in the world - "Is that true?" The Playwright hadn't lingered to hear the answer; he wondered what such a revelation meant, for a man. Are we never at home in our bodies? In the world? Except in the act of sexual intercourse, transmitting our seed to the female?”

HomeBodyComfortSafePregnancyRevelation
Book:Blonde
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“As onerous as certain long-winded tasks are, the key seems to always be the same-- just keep going, just keep going, one foot in front of the other, one bag of garbage filled and out and then the next, one box of important things carefully packed and sealed and then another, more, more, just keep going, one foot in front of the other. And then look what you've got: a new home, a new life, a new play, a production, something you've knitted from fragments of dreams and ideas, something you've woven from yarns and memories, something you've written from yarns and images. One foot more.”

LifeIdeasPlayHomeMemoriesProduceKeep GoingCreateImageOne Foot
Author:Shellen Lubin
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“I want to make buns too!” four-year-old Peter declared firmly. “Then help me knead and roll the dough,” Grandma Iryna suggested, “and I’ll shape and bake all sorts of tasty treats from it.” “Deal!” She lifted her grandson onto a sturdy chair at the edge of the table so he could reach the dough comfortably, then pinched off a small lump for him. “I’ll knead my piece, and you’ll knead yours — together we’ll finish faster,” she said. “Watch me and do the same.” Glancing at his teacher, the boy eagerly began working his dough. Soon he was covered in flour from head to toe. Iryna only smiled and encouraged him, kneading her own dough with skillful hands and humming gentle folk rhymes. — Volodymyr Shablia, Stone. Book One Context note: Set in rural Ukraine before war and repression tear childhood apart, this scene captures a fleeting moment of safety and love — a grandmother teaching her grandson patience, trust, and joy through the simplest ritual of home.”

LoveHomeFamilyChildhoodInnocenceGrandmotherWarmthHistorical FictionUkrainePre War Society
Book:Камень. Биографический роман: Часть первая. Первые шаги к свету и обратно
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“Any family could have lived in that room, filling the shelves with bought or borrowed books that eventually overflowed to the short glass coffee table. Porcelain ballerinas and clowns, cartoonish and threatening in their amplified emotions, must have been gifts from doting great-aunts. Three living succulents—I touched them, to check for falsity and perpetual longevity—were equally spaced in front of a thick copy of Elizabeth Bishop’s collected works. My family could not have lived in that room; I could not have lived in that room.”

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Book:A Good Happy Girl
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