When the survivors are gone we must not let the truth disappear with them. Please, give them a voice.
The State controls the amount of food we eat, our electricity, our transportation, the information we receive.
Memories are hungry, tesoro. You mustn’t feed them.
When he asks Fuga about his stillness, his friend shrugs and says, “El momento.” The moment. To Fuga, the past no longer exists. The future is yet to exist. Fuga pledges loyalty to the “is,” not the “if.
It’s not her fault, but Sissy’s presence seems to amplify his mother’s absence. It stings.
Death hath a thousand doors to let out life; I shall find one.’ We all have a door that waits.
History is the gateway to our collective story and the story of humanity. Historical fiction allows us to explore underrepresented stories and illuminate countries on the map.
They steal our power by making us believe we don’t have any,” said Bunu. “But words and creative phrases – they have power, Cristian. Explore that power in your mind.
He denied them food, electricty, truth and freedom. The citizens of Romania were stoic and resilient, but they suffered a terror of tyranny.
Gold is tried by fire and brave men by adversity,” says Rafa.
Everyone who isn’t a maid has one.
Words are weapons. I’ll be able to fight our American and Birtish enemies with words, not only guns.
When it’s time, we have to be ready.” “For what?” asked Cici. “To fight,” he replied.
Everyone has been calm for a year or two. But if it be your will... Let the silence remain.
It’s difficult navigating two cultures,” she once told him. “I feel like a bookmark wedged between chapters. I live in America, but I am not born of it. I’m Spanish.
The baby is not yet strong. Neither is Julia. She clings desperately to the child, and together they cry through the nights.
His difficult past was not a burden to him but an inspiration.
Was it better to know, or better not to?
You’re a photographer, a storyteller. In a dozen pictures, you showed me ten layers of Texas. Choose an angle and show me ten layers of Madrid.
The temporary victory is silent, but sings through his soul.
In the universe of memories, we’re all the villain in someone’s story.