Author of quotes: Elif Shafak. Page 1

“But I don’t agree,” Defne muttered into her glass of wine. - There are moments in life when each of us has to be a fighter. The poet's weapon is words, the artist's weapon is pictures... But you can't say: "Excuse me, but I'm a poet, so I pass." You simply have no right to say that when there is so much suffering, inequality, injustice around...

Mosquitoes are the sworn enemies of the human race. They killed half the people who ever walked this earth. It always amazes me that people who are scared to death of tigers, not to mention mythical vampires and zombies, forget that their worst enemy is none other than a tiny mosquito.

We never really think about the impact our wars and conflicts have on animals. And they suffer just like us.

The body of a former lover is a map that pulls you into its depths and returns to the surface that part of your being that was lost somewhere along the way. It is also a dimmed, cracked mirror that shows you how much you have changed; like any mirror, it longs to be whole again.

Unlike historical literature, in real life, stories do not reach us in their entirety, but in pieces and fragments, isolated segments and partial echoes: the full sentence is here, the fragment is there, the key is hidden somewhere in the middle. And, unlike any kind of literature, in real life we weave our stories from threads no thicker than the thin veins of a butterfly's wings.

Tenderness, like a flower, blossomed where the pain sat.

People quickly lose their vigilance. Engaged in politics and conflict, they are distracted from health issues, causing disease and pandemics to rage.

In the dark hours of despair, opposites come together and become friends.

Ethnic hatred is immortal. And only adds new layers to the hardened shells.

After all, we speak different languages, you think, and then you see that our common language is sorrow. We, people with a difficult past, understand each other.

The water that our branches suck up is the blood of the earth, the tears of the victims, the ink of the truth that needs to be acknowledged. People, especially victors, who create annals of history with a pen in their hands, tend to erase rather than document. And we, the plants, have to collect everything untold and undesirable. Like a cat curling up on its favorite pillow, the tree wraps its roots around the remnants of truth.

If a person's beard catches fire, the rest will light their pipes from it.

Now I look at bigotry - any type - as a non-viral disease. Sneaking insidiously and ticking like a pendulum clock that never stops, this affliction strikes faster those who are part of a closed, homogenous community. Therefore, I always remind myself that it is better to stay away from all sorts of collective beliefs and beliefs.

Truth is a rhizome, an underground stem or stem of plants with side shoots. You have to dig deep to get to it, and once you dig it, treat it with respect.