Nunca estás donde te busco, y apareces cuando menos lo espero. Como el arco iris.
Patrick Rothfuss-¿Insinúas que esa cosa de ahí abajo -buscó a tientas las palabras; sus labios se movieron un momento sin articular ningún sonido- pretende tirarse a nuestra hoguera?
Patrick RothfussSoy Ruh hasta la médula, y cuando ha terminado la escena, sé salir del escenario.
Patrick Rothfuss-Vaya a buscar lo que le he pedido -dije mirándolo a los ojos-. Y también un odre de agua. O quemaré esta posada con usted dentro y bailaré entre las cenizas y entre sus chamuscados y pegajosos huesos.
Patrick RothfussSu voz es como una tormenta, y sus manos conocen todos los secretos ocultos bajo la fría y oscura tierra.
Patrick Rothfuss-Tú no buscas secretos insignificantes, ¿Verdad?
Patrick RothfussCould you help me catch the moon?”
“I might be able to give you some advice,” the old man said reluctantly. “But first you should think this over, boy. When you love something, you have to make sure it loves you back, or you’ll bring about no end of trouble chasing it.
If I seem to wander, if I seem to stray, remember that true stories seldom take the straightest way
Patrick RothfussTeccam explains there are two types of secrets. There are secrets of the mouth and secrets of the heart.
Most secrets are secrets of the mouth. Gossip shared and small scandals whispered. There secrets long to be let loose upon the world. A secret of the mouth is like a stone in your boot. At first you’re barely aware of it. Then it grows irritating, then intolerable. Secrets of the mouth grow larger the longer you keep them, swelling until they press against your lips. They fight to be let free.
Secrets of the heart are different. They are private and painful, and we want nothing more than to hide them from the world. They do not swell and press against the mouth. They live in the heart, and the longer they are kept, the heavier they become.
Teccam claims it is better to have a mouthful of poison than a secret of the heart. Any fool will spit out poison, he says, but we hoard these painful treasures. We swallow hard against them every day, forcing them deep inside us. They they sit, growing heavier, festering. Given enough time, they cannot help but crush the heart that holds them.
Then I played the song that hides in the center of me. That wordless music that moves through the secret places in my heart. I played it carefully, strumming it slow and low into the dark stillness of the night. I would like to say it is a happy song, that it is sweet and bright, but it is not.
Patrick RothfussTags: music sadness inner-sorrow
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