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Quote by Naoshi Arakawa

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四月は君の嘘 8 [Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso 8]

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Naoshi Arakawa

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“[...]sabía que el organismo producía tres tipos de lágrimas, cada una con su propia composición química. Una se generaba con regularidad para mantener la humedad del ojo. La segunda se activaba para lubricar y expulsar un cuerpo extraño que hubiera penetrado en el ojo. La tercera era producto de la tristeza. Su misión consistía en expulsar las sustancias segregadas por el sentimiento de aflicción. Es decir, llorabas para vomitar la pena.”

TearsIsabel
Book:Sinner
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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.»”

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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.”

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Book:Jean Santeuil
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