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Quote by Yasmina Khadra

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Yasmina Khadra
Yasmina Khadra

Yasmina Khadra is a prominent Moroccan author of French descent, known for her works that delve into themes of identity, politics, and social issues. Born on January 10, 1955, she has garnered international acclaim for her compelling storytelling and nuanced character portrayals. more

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“Mais, grand-frère, nous le savons tous les deux que ça ne veut rien dire, faire son deuil, que c'est une expression pour les magazines, on continue à marcher avec nos morts sur les épaules, avec nos ombres, et rien d'autre. Nous le savons que, chaque matin, il faut se rassembler, se lever, se mettre en marche, quoi qu'il en coûte. Que la douleur est un archipel dont on n'a jamais fini d'explorer les passes et les courants. Qu'elle est inépuisable. Lente, féroce et patiente comme un fauve.”

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“The robot sat for a moment, considering. "I don't want to separate myself from other robots any more than I already have," it said. "I am having the most incredible experience out here. I've seen species of trees that don't live in my part of the world. I've been on a boat. I've played with domesticated cats. I have a satchel!" It gestured at the bag hanging at its side for emphasis. "A satchel for my belongings! I am doing things no robot has ever done, and while that's marvelous, I ... I don't want to become removed from tham. The aggregate differences I have are only going to increase as we continue along, Sibling Dex. It's very nice to be famous, but I don't know how I feel about it yet, and I'm beginning to wonder if it's a trait I'll have among my own kind as well. So, you see, it's enough that I'm experientialy different; I don't want to be physically different too." It paused. "Does that make sense?”

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“But her relationship with food was all about being Carmen of Seville. It was her truth, her statement to the world. And she didn't care if she had to use her beauty queen smarts to get people too take a bite- because once they had a taste of her flavors, of the garlic and olive oil and pinches of smoked paprika, pimentón,they would know. Carmen Vega wasn't just another pretty face. She was an artist.”

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“So, Nora leaves him in the end," she said, as they walked down the stairs. "What?" "In the play. A Doll's House." "That's right." Beatrice went to the sink. "She says she can't be anyone's wife or anyone's mother until she knows who she is. She walks out of their house and closes the door behind. It's this iconic moment. At least, that's what our teacher said." "That's very interesting.”

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“Who was the artist? The line of her body was slim and softly feminine in a way that spoke to every one of his senses. Her hair, a rich mahogany had smelled wonderful, though he'd be hard-pressed to describe just exactly what it smelled like... fresh, he would have said, Or clean. Or sweet. But none of those words really seemed to apply, precisely. How he loved discovering the unique smell of a woman... a good place to start discovering it, he knew, was the nape of the neck. But there were other delightful places, too. He smiled, a wicked, private smile, which faded when he remembered he was not to be discovering the smells of females while he was in Barnstables. You were bloody quiet, she'd said. As though he'd thwarted her. He gave a bark of delighted laughter. It rather sounded like something he would have said.”

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