The word for 'book' in all the known languages of the earth is vallon, 'chamber of words'...
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: books
Once you have built something - something that takes all your passion and will - it becomes more precious to you than your own happiness. You don't realise that, while you are building it. That you are creating a martyrdom - something which, later, will make you suffer.
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: ideals
Long is the journey homeward, Weary and worn are we. Oh, if I fall behind, my love, Will you look back for?
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: journeys
The silence. End of all poetry, all romances. Earlier, frightened, you began to have some intimation of it: so many pages had been turned, the book was so heavy in one hand, so light in the other, thinning toward the end. Still, you consoled yourself. You were not quite at the end of the story, at that terrible flyleaf, blank like a shuttered window: there were still a few pages under your thumb, still to be sought and treasured.
Sofia SamatarThe truth has its own virtue, which is separate from its content.
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: scales-of-truth-and-virtue
But preserve your mistrust of the page, for a book is a fortress, a place of weeping, the key to a desert, a river that has no bridge, a garden of spears.
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: books
All through my journey his stories had fallen like snow. He was as full of them as a library with unmarked shelves. He was a talking book.
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: books
As I was a stranger in Olondria, I knew nothing of the splendour of its coasts, nor of Bain, the Harbour City, whose lights and colours spill into the ocean like a cataract of roses. I did not know the vastness of the spice markets of Bain, where the merchants are delirious with scents, I had never seen the morning mists adrift above the surface of the green Illoun, of which the poets sing; I had never seen a woman with gems in her hair, nor observed the copper glinting of the domes, nor stood upon the melancholy beaches of the south while the wind brought in the sadness from the sea. Deep within the Fayaleith, the Country of the Wines, the clarity of light can stop the heart: it is the light the local people call 'the breath of angels'...
Sofia SamatarStichwörter: travelogue
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