Jesteśmy społecznością, która kocha książki

Przeszłość bije we mnie niczym drugie serce.

Przeszłość bije we mnie niczym drugie serce.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands.

He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and s...

BRICK: I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. You keep forgetting the conditions on which I agreed to stay on living with you. MARGARET [out before she knows it]: I'm not living with you. We occupy the same cage.

BRICK: I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. You keep forgetting the conditions on which I agreed to stay on living with you. MARG...

But your book is wrong, Mrs. Strunk, says George, when it tells you that Jim is the substitute I found for a real son, a real kid brother, a real husband, a real wife. Jim wasn't a substitute for anything. And there is no substitute for Jim, if you'll forgive my saying so, anywhere.

But your book is wrong, Mrs. Strunk, says George, when it tells you that Jim is the substitute I found for a real son, a real kid brother, a...

As a very young man, Christopher had read Turgenev and Chekhov and had yearned romantically for the steppe, the immense land- ocean which stretches east, unbounded, to the Ural Mountains and then endlessly on across Siberia. At Mohrin, he was actually on the edge of that ocean. But the ocean seemed less inspiring, here, than it had seemed in London, ten years earlier. God, it was flat.

As a very young man, Christopher had read Turgenev and Chekhov and had yearned romantically for the steppe, the immense land- ocean which st...

The Christopher who sat in that taxi is, practically speaking, dead; he only remains reflected in the fading memories of us who knew him. I can't revitalize him now. I can only reconstruct him from his remembered acts and words and from the writings he has left us. He embarrasses me often, and so I'm tempted to sneer at him; but I will try not to. I'll try not to apologize for him, either. After all, I owe him some respect. In a sense he is my Father, and in another sense my Son.

The Christopher who sat in that taxi is, practically speaking, dead; he only remains reflected in the fading memories of us who knew him. I ...

As he worked at his desk and I sat on his couch, reading or daydreaming, we bathed in music. Did he feel the same things I felt? Perhaps I ask this only because now that he's dead I fear we shared nothing and my long captivity in his house represented to him only a slight inconvenience, a major expense, a fair to middling disappointment, but I like to think that music spoke to us in similar ways and acted as the source and transcript of a shared rapture.

As he worked at his desk and I sat on his couch, reading or daydreaming, we bathed in music. Did he feel the same things I felt? Perhaps I a...

Noc, świat pogrążony w ciszy, jakby nikogo tu nie było, nawet mnie samego. Nie słyszę morza, które w inne dni grzmi i warczy, raz bliskie i zgrzytliwe, to znów dalekie i ciche. Nie zgadzam się na taką samotność. Dlaczego nie wracasz i mnie nie dręczysz? Przynajmniej tego bym od ciebie oczekiwał. Skąd ta cisza, dzień po dniu, noc po niekończącej się nocy? Przypomina mgłę, to twoje milczenie.(...)Przyślij tu swojego ducha. Poddaj mnie męczarniom, jeśli chcesz. Niech zagrzechoczą twoje kajdany, całuny niech spłyną po posadzkach, niech rozlegnie się lament zwiastującej śmierć zjawy, cokolwiek. Dałbym wszystko za ducha.

Noc, świat pogrążony w ciszy, jakby nikogo tu nie było, nawet mnie samego. Nie słyszę morza, które w inne dni grzmi i warczy, raz bliskie i ...