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C Quotes

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All C Quotes

“Celui qui souffre d'un mal caractérisé n'a pas le droit de se plaindre : il a une occupation. Les grands souffrants ne s'ennuient jamais : la maladie les remplit, comme le remords nourrit les grands coupables. Car toute souffrance intense suscite un simulacre de plénitude et propose à la conscience une réalité terrible, qu'elle ne saurait éluder ; tandis que la souffrance sans matière dans ce deuil temporel qu'est l' ennui n'oppose à la conscience rien qui l'oblige à une démarche fructueuse. Comment guérir d'un mal non localisé et suprêmement imprécis, qui frappe le corps sans y laisser d'empreinte, qui s'insinue dans l'âme sans y marquer de signe ? Il ressemble à une maladie à laquelle nous aurions survécu, mais qui aurait absorbé nos possibilités, nos réserves d' attention et nous aurait laissés impuissants à combler le vide qui suit la disparition de nos affres et l'évanouissement de nos tourments. L'enfer est un havre auprès de ce dépaysement dans le temps, de cette langueur vide et prostrée où rien ne nous arrête sinon le spectacle de l'univers qui se carie sous nos regard. Quelle thérapeutique employer contre une maladie dont nous ne nous souvenons plus et dont les suites empiètent sur nos jours ? Comment inventer un remède à l'existence, comment conclure cette guérison sans fin ? Et comment se remettre de sa naissance ? L'ennui, cette convalescence incurable ...”

“Celui qui voyage peut garder un silence qui sera mystérieux pour les inconnus qui le remarquent, ou céder sans danger à la tentation de parler et de devenir un menteur, d'enjoliver un épisode de sa vie en la racontant à quelqu'un qu'il ne verra plus jamais. Je crois qu'il n'est pas vrai, comme on le dit, qu'en voyageant on pourrait devenir un autre : ce qui se passe, c'est qu'on se trouve allégé de soi-même, de ses obligations et de son passé, tout comme on réduit tout ce qu'on possède aux quelques choses nécessaires à son bagage. La partie la plus pesante de notre identité s'appuie sur ce que les autres savent ou pensent de nous. Ils nous regardent et nous savons qu'ils savent, et en silence ils nous obligent à être ce qu'ils attendent que nous soyons, à agir conformément à certaines habitudes que nos actions antérieures ont établies, ou aux soupçons que nous n'avons pas conscience d'avoir éveillés. Ils nous regardent et nous ne savons pas qui ils peuvent bien voir en nous, ni ce qu'ils inventent ou décident que nous sommes.”

“Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens. The graves are covered with grass and colorful flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery. When the sun goes down, the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles. It looks as though the dead are dancing at a children's ball. Yes, a children's ball, because the dead are as innocent as children. No matter how brutal life becomes, peace always reigns in the cemetery. Even in wartime, in Hitler's time, in Stalin's time, through all occupations. When she felt low, she would get into the car, leave Prague far behind, and walk through one or another of the country cemeteries she loved so well. Against a backdrop of blue hills, they were as beautiful as a lullaby.”

“Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens. The graves are covered with grass and colourful flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery. When the sun goes down, the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles... no matter how brutal life becomes, peace always reigns in the cemetery. Even in wartime, even in Hitler's time, even in Stalin's time.”

“Cemeteries stutter like broken radios static and memory, all at once. Not quiet. Never quiet. Just my father’s voice trapped between stations, trying to reach me across years he never learned how to carry. The way he would clear his throat before telling me things I wasn’t ready to hear. My mother didn’t cry at burials. She folded her grief into the corners of her saree, tucked them between recipe books, let the scent of cardamom mourn in her place. Grief is not an echo. It’s the bruise on a peach. It’s turmeric beneath the nails. It’s calling out names in a cemetery and flinching when no one turns. Some days I mistake sidewalks for gravestones. Some days I pour tea for the silence at the table. Some days I mistake dust for the breath of memory. Some days I say “I miss you” to the crack in the wall near the kitchen sink, to the kind of quiet that doesn’t leave. But grief never finishes its tea it just stains the cup and walks away barefoot.”

“CeNation. In Austin, TX, preparing to perfrom for members of our military. In that vein, I would like to let the Rough Riders Platoon know that even though they are going through a difficult time, with brave soliders making the ultimate sacrifice, to keep their heads up, hearts strong, and know that all of them are in my thoughts. Never Give Up.”

“Cendrillon specialized in seafood, so we had four fish stations: one for poaching, one for roasting, one for sautéing, and one for sauce. I was the chef de partie for the latter two, which also included making our restaurant's signature soups. O'Shea planned his menu seasonally- depending on what was available at the market. It was fall, my favorite time of the year, bursting with all the savory ingredients I craved like a culinary hedonist, the ingredients that turned my light on. All those varieties of beautiful squashes and root vegetables- the explosion of colors, the ochre yellows, lush greens, vivid reds, and a kaleidoscope of oranges- were just a few of the ingredients that fueled my cooking fantasies. In the summer, on those hot cooking days and nights in New York with rivulets of thick sweat coating my forehead, I'd fantasize about what we'd create in the fall, closing my eyes and cooking in my head. Soon, the waitstaff would arrive to taste tonight's specials, which would be followed by our family meal. I eyed the board on the wall and licked my lips. The amuse-bouche consisted of a pan-seared foie gras served with caramelized pears; the entrée, a boar carpaccio with eggplant caviar, apples, and ginger; the two plats principaux, a cognac-flambéed seared sea scallop and shrimp plate served with deep-fried goat cheese and garnished with licorice-perfumed fennel leaves, which fell under my responsibility, and the chief's version of a beef Wellington served with a celeriac mash, baby carrots, and thin French green beans.”

“Cennet, cehennem ya da benzer kavramlara gelince, doğrusu ölümünden sonra ne olduğu konusuyla sanıldığı kadar ilgili değilizdir,din sayın düşünür,dünyevi bir konudur aslında,öbür tarafla ya da göğün yedi katıyla hiçbir ilgisi yoktur. Duymayı alışık olduğunuz sözler bunlar değil tabii ama biz de sattığımız malın daha çekici olması için bir şeyler yapmak zorundayız. O halde bu söylediklerinizden sonsuz yaşama inanmadığınız sonucunu mu çıkarmalıyız? İnanırmış gibi yapıyoruz..”