A few quotes by Simon Van Booy. His writing is beautiful and mesmerizing, just a pure joy .
“When small drops began to fall and darken the world in penny-shaped circles, no one arround him scurried for cover. For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched.”
“It had rained, she said, and I imagined the beads of small water on the windshield like a thousand eyes, or each drop a small imperfect reflection of a perfect moment.”
“Rain says everything we cannot say to one another. It is an ancient sound that willed all life into being, but fell so long upon nothing.”
An excerpt from “A Man Without a Country” by Kurt Vonnegut
“If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I am not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. you will have created something.”
An excerpt from “Between Friends” by Amos Oz, an amazing Israeli writer. This short story, taken place in the kibbutz and set to the rain from start to finish, is about a devoted father who fails to challenge his 17-year-old daughter’s lover, an old friend, a man his own age.
“In the early hours, the first rain of the season began to fall on the kibbutz houses, its fields and orchards. The fresh smell of damp earth and clean leaves filled the air. The rain rattled along the gutters and washed the dust off the red roofs and tin sheds. At dawn, a gentle mist enveloped the buildings, and the flowers in the gardens sparkled with beads of water. A redundant lawn sprinkler continued its sputtering. A child’s wet red tricycle stood diagonally across a path. From the treetops came the sharp, astonished cries of birds.
The rain woke Nahum Asherov from a fitful sleep. For several moments after waking, he heard tapping on the shutters as if someone had come to tell him something. He sat up in his bed and listened intently until he realized that the first rain had come. Today, he’d go there, sit Edna down, look her directly in the eyes, and speak to her. About everything. And to David Dagan, too. He couldn’t just let it pass.”
They fly – quick-wrought and quickly written,
Still hot from all the bitterness and bliss.
My moment, hour, day, year, lifetime – smitten,
Twixt love and love lie on the crucifix.
And I hear word of thunderstorms a-rising;
Spears, Amazonian, again flash through the sky…
Yet cannot hold my pen back! These two roses
Have sucked my heart’s blood dry.
An excerpt from “Independent People” by Halldor Laxness
“Shortly afterwards it started raining, very innocently at first, but the sky was packed tight with cloud and gradually the drops grew bigger and heavier, until it was autumn’s dismal rain that was falling—rain that seemed to fill the entire world with its leaden beat, rain suggestive in its dreariness of everlasting waterfalls between the planets, rain that thatched the heavens with drabness and brooded oppressively over the whole countryside, like a disease, strong in the power of its flat, unvarying monotony, its smothering heaviness, its cold, unrelenting cruelty. Smoothly, smoothly it fell, over the whole shire, over the fallen marsh grass, over the troubled lake, the iron-grey gravel flats, the sombre mountain above the croft, smudging out every prospect. And the heavy, hopeless, interminable beat wormed its way into every crevice in the house, lay like a pad of cotton wool over the ears, and embraced everything, both near and far, in its compass, like an unromantic story from life itself that has no rhythm and no crescendo, no climax, but which is nevertheless overwhelming in its scope, terrifying in its significance. And at the bottom of this unfathomed ocean of teeming rain sat the little house and its one neurotic woman.”
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain
Of evening rain,
Unravelled from the tumbling main,
And threading the eye of a yellow star: -
So many times do I love again.
~Thomas Lovell Beddoes
It’s a fact – the men are more romantic in the rain. When they are getting soaking wet while covering us with an umbrella, we know that we are in good hands (or so we think).