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Quote by Hurairo-san

“Kita berdua adalah insan tak bernama, yang telah lalui seribu senja dalam bisu. Yang masih belajar untuk merindu dan menerima. Di dalam dirimu yang tertutup kerudung cokelat itu, ada senja kemerahan, yang menanti gelapnya malam tiba. Matahari masih tetap menunggu, sementara kita terdiam dalam bisu.”

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Hurairo-san

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“Senang berkenalan dengan kalian. Ah, itu memang “ruh” kami di sini. Al-Quran adalah suplemen terbaik untuk bisa terus berkembang. Kata abi, harus sering dibaca dan diamalkan bila ingin mudah dihafal. Terimakasih untuk potret yang amat indah. Tapi maaf, aku dan teman-temanku tak akan pernah meninggalkan bumi para ambiya’ ini sejengkal pun. Adalah tugas kami untuk menjaga Masjidil Aqsha hingga kemenangan itu tiba. Khalid (Korespondensi Tak Berbalas, Dunia Tanpa Huruf R)”

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“Ketika satu demi satu kabut menjadi awan gelap di luar jendela Aku mengingatmu karena aku masih mencintaimu Aku berulang kali mengumpulkan air mataku pada sebuah surat lalu mengirimnya ke langit Aku menunggu Ketika satu demi satu gerimis menjadi hujan lebat di luar jendela Aku merindukanmu karena aku masih mencintaimu Aku kembali menjatuhkan air mataku setelah mendapat surat balasan dari langit Aku sudah menerima pesanmu Aku sedang menangis bersamamu Aku akan mempercayai itu”

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“It was as if the base of the mountain had been hollowed out by some massive digging beast, leaving a pit descending into the dark heart of the world. Around that gaping hole, carved into the mountain itself, spiralled level after level of shelves and books and reading areas, leading into the inky black. From what I could see of the various levels as I drifted toward the carved stone railing overlooking the drop, the stacks shot far into the mountain itself, like the spokes of a mighty wheel. And through it all, fluttering like moth's wings, the rustle of paper on parchment. Silent, and yet alive. Awake and humming and restless, some many-limbed beast at constant work. I peered upward, finding more levels rising toward the House above. And lurking far below... Darkness.”

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“We passed stacks of books and parchments, the shelves either built into the stone itself or made of dark, solid wood. Hallways lined with both vanished into the mountain itself, and every few minutes, a little reading area popped up, full of tidy tables, low-burning glass lamps, and deep-cushioned chairs and couches. Ancient woven rugs adorned the floors beneath them, usually set before fireplaces that had been carved into the rock and kept well away from any shelves, their grates fine-meshed enough to retain any wandering embers. Cosy, despite the size of the space; warm, despite the unknown terror lurking below.”

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“A little later, as we talked of the Maniot dirges by which I was obsessed, I was surprised to hear this bloodshot-eyed and barefoot old man say: “Yes, it’s the old iambic tetrameter acalectic.” It was the equivalent of a Cornish fisherman pointing out the difference, in practicality incomprehensible dialect, between the Petrachian and the Spenserian sonnet. It was quite correct. Where on earth had he learnt it? His last bit of information was that, in the old days (that wonderful cupboard!) the Arabs used to come to this coast to dive for the murex.”

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