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All L Quotes

“Lucrul pe care nu-l iau în calcul majoritatea oamenilor este că moartea e adesea aleatorie și crudă. Nu ține cont dacă ai fost un om bun toată viaţa. Sau dacă ai mâncat sănătos, dacă ai făcut mișcare frecvent, dacă ai purtat mereu centura de siguranţă sau casca. Nu ţine cont dacă persoana iubită care rămâne în urmă și-ar putea petrece tot restul vieții retrăind în minte totul, chinuită de cuvintele "ce ar fi fost dacă". Oamenii își spun că au suficient timp, până când ajung la mila unei acțiuni necugetate: un șofer cu ochii în telefon, un vecin care a lăsat o lumânare aprinsă. Iar atunci e prea târziu.”

“Lucrécio colocou-nos a seguinte questão: Houve uma eternidade antes de nascermos. Antes não existíamos. Isso é motivo de desespero ou ansiedade? Então por que motivo é que a eternidade que se sucederá depois da morte te provoca uma ansiedade tão grande? Não me preocupar com a minha morte com o argumento de que houve uma eternidade antes de ter nascido e isso não ter sido motivo de angústia, é esquecer a dor de quem sente a perda, dos amigos, dos familiares que irão inevitavelmente sofrer. Isso cria angústia. E esta angústia não é somente fruto da iminência do nosso desaparecimento, mas das consequências que terá em quem amamos. Antes de teres nascido, Lucrécio, não tinhas filhos nem amigos para chorarem a tua morte. O argumento só se sustém na eventualidade de estarmos sozinhos. Para amar pessoas precisamos de ter vivido. Antes disso, não conta, Lucrécio.”

“Lucullus placed a live fish in a glass jar in front of every diner at his table. The better the death, the better the meal would taste. Catherine de Medici brought her cooks to France when she married, and those cooks brought sherbet and custard and cream puffs, artichokes and onion soup, and the idea of roasting birds with oranges. As well as cooks, she brought embroidery and handkerchiefs, perfumes and lingerie, silverware and glassware and the idea that gathering around a table was something to be done thoughtfully. In essence, she brought being French to France. Everything started somewhere else. She thought of Tim's note: write to me. He didn't want to hear about Lucullus and Catherine de Medici; but she loved her old tomes and the things unearthed there, the ballast they lent, the safety of information. She spread her notebooks open across the table. There was a recipe for roasted locusts from ancient Egypt, and on the facing page, her own memory of the first thing she ever cooked, the curry sauce and Anne's chocolate.”

“Lucy began cutting her sausage into rounds. “I can’t believe Christmas is almost upon us,” she mentioned. “It’ll be a hard Christmas for many,” James said. “A dark Christmas for all.” “That’s why it’s good to remember that we have the Light,” Lucy said softly. James smiled at her. “Right you are, Lucy. Right you are.”

“Lucy Gray Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day The solitary Child. No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wild Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon." At this the Father rais'd his hook And snapp'd a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time, She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reach'd the Town. The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door. And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd "In Heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they cross'd, The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came. They follow'd from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.”

“Lucy happily settled down to work. First she sent for papyrus and handmade a book leaf by leaf, binding the leaves together between board covers. Then she filled each page from memory, drew English roses budding and Chinese roses in full bloom, peppercorn-pink Bourbon roses climbing walls and silvery musk roses drowsing in flowerbeds. She took every rose she'd ever seen, made them as lifelike as she could (where she shaded each petal the rough paper turned silken), and in these lasting forms she offered them to Safiye.”

“Lucy's eyes began to grow accustomed to the light, and she saw the trees that were nearest her more distinctly. A great longing for the old days when the trees could talk in Narnia came over her. She knew exactly how each of these trees would talk if only she could wake them, and what sort of human form it would put on. She looked at a silver birch; it would have a soft, showery voice and would look like a slender girl, with hair blown all about her face, and fond of dancing. She looked at the oak: he would be a wizened, but hearty old man with a frizzled beard and warts on his face and hands, and hair growing out of the warts. She looked at the beech under which she was standing. Ah!- she would be the best of all. She would be a precious goddess, smooth and stately, the lady of the wood.”

“Lucy said, 'We're so afraid of being sent away, Aslan. And you have sent us back into our own world so often.' 'No fear of that,' said Aslan. 'Have you not guessed?' Their hearts leapt, and a wild hope rose within them. 'There was a real railway accident,' said Aslan softly. 'Your father and mother and all of you are- as you used to call it in the Shadowlands- dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.”

“Lucy shook her head. ‘How can you say that love’s a crime?’ ‘Love was Satan’s deadliest gift to mankind. When Pandora opened her box, the first and greatest evil to fly out was love.’ ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘Love is the glue that keeps souls attached to this world, stuck in this hell. It mires us in misery. Love glitters and seduces. No one would endure one moment of this hell if they felt nothing but the pain. It’s the love that allows people to bear it. Love traps us, keeps us in the snares of the material world, this false world of the false god. Yet you, better than anyone, know that the underside of love is pain, the worst pain of all.’ Lucy looked away. Morson, in his mad way, was right. Love is poison. A beautiful poison, but poison all the same. The first taste might be paradise, but what followed was hell.”

“Lucy swayed in shock. A gust of wind moaned through the conservatory and blew out all but one of her candles. Simon must have done this. He’d destroyed his fairyland conservatory. Why? She sank to her knees, huddled on the cold floor, her one remaining flame cradled in her numb palms. She’d seen how tenderly Simon had cared for his plants. Remembered the look of pride when she’d first discovered the dome and fountain. For him to have smashed all this . . . He must have lost hope. All hope.”

“Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.”