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Three Day Quote Challenge. The Final Day!

I don’t know if I manage to post Fri-DIY today – my excuses are confidential but reasonable, trust me – but at least I can post the final quote on my blogging Quote Challenge. So, without further ado…)

Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I don’t like Rome, I said. It is hot and full of fleas. You don’t like Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of nations. I will never forget Romulus suckling the Tiber. What? Nothing. Let’s all go to Rome.

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms”

And I have nothing to add. 😉

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Three Day Quote Challenge. Day 1

I couldn’t resist this blogging challenge – not only because I was nominated by the Queen of Challenges – Olivia – but simply because I looove reading. And I already have a few favorite quotes in stock so that seemed like an easy one.)

When I think of my favorite quotes there’s one that immediately pops up in my head. I’ve read the book in russian and it actually took me ages on the Internet to find an actual sentence in english – but I did and it’s as marvelous as I remember it. Quite a sentence, you say! No, not just a sentence. Masterpiece.

Lucas could not help imagining this procession of walkers, all of them poor and battered, wearing old coats too small or too large for them, dragging children who could not or would not walk, all marching along Rivington Street, impelled by someone or something that pushed them steadily forward, slowly but inexorably, so it only seemed as if they moved of their own will; all of them walking on, past the houses and stables, past the taverns, past the works and into the river, where they would fall, one after another after another, and continue to walk, drowned but animate, on the bottom, until the street was finally empty and the people were all in the river, trudging along its silty bed, through its drifts of brown and sulfur, into its deeper darks, until they reached the ocean, this multitude of walkers, until they were nudged into open water where silver fish swam silently past, where the ocher of the river gave over to inky blue, where clouds floated on the surface, far, far above, and they were free, all of them, to drift away, their coats billowing like wings, their children flying effortlessly, a whole nation of the dead, dispersing, buoyant, faintly illuminated, spreading out like constellations into the blue immensity.

Michael Cunningham, “Specimen Days”

And it’s perfect.