L'inoblidable viatge a Grècia de Carles Riba (2023)

Dues vegades, en aquest viatge, he hagut de fer un esforç violent per no plorar com una criatura... o com un heroi antic. L'una a l'embarcament de Marsella, quan pressentia la meva Grècia a través d'una boira rosada i lila; l'altra a l'embarcament de Patres, quan per fi anava a conèixer la Ítaca de l'Odissea, del llibre més bell del món"
 

Reliquia de Pol Guasch (2026)

Hauria agraït una nota.

Doblegada en quatre plecs, amb errates i paraules esborrades, en un full reciclat d’un altre dia, en un fragment de paper qualsevol, en un tovalló vell, sobre una carta oberta, tant és, una nota abans de fer-ho. Sovint penso què hi hauries escrit: «T’estimo». «Cuida’t de ta mare, dels germans. Oblida aquest moment. Prova d’oblidar que ja ho sabies, que quan has sortit de casa per cercar-me, quan heu agafat el cotxe i us heu aturat a la benzinera, ja sabies que tenia la sang congelada, la porta oberta, és gener, a fora, tinc les mans gastades d’aquest fred i ara el cos glaçat, els peus glaçats, sense sabates. Prova d’oblidar-me.» Una nota entre les mans, damunt la cadira, on fos, una nota i només una frase: «Fill, prova d’oblidar-me».

The Sheltering Sky de Paul Bowles (1949)

“He did not think of himself as a tourist; he was a traveler. The difference is partly one of time, he would explain. Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler, belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly, over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another.”

“the sky here's very strange. I often have the sensation when I look at it that it's a solid thing up there, protecting us from what's behind . . . [from] nothing, I suppose. Just darkness. Absolute night.”

“Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”