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On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
... I fled my shitty high school to spend my days in New York lost in library stacks, reading obscure texts by dead people, most of whom never dreamed a face like mine floating over their sentences—and least of all that those sentences would save me.
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The Lover by Marguerite Duras
I can’t really remember the days. The light of the sun blurred and annihilated all colors. But the nights, I remember them. The blue was more distant than the sky, beyond all depths, covering the bounds of the world. The sky, for me, was the stretch of pure brilliance crossing the blue, that cold coalescence beyond all colour. Sometimes, it was in Vinh Long, when my mother was sad she’d order the gig and we’d drive out into the country to see that night as it was in the dry season. I had that good fortune—those nights, that mother. The light fell from the sky in cataracts of pure transparency, in torrents of silence and immobility. The air was blue, you could hold it in your hand. Blue. The sky was the continual throbbing of the brilliance of the light. The night lit up everything, all the country on either bank of the river as far as eyes could reach. Every night was different, each one had a name as long as it lasted. Their sound was that of the dogs, the country dogs baying at mystery.
The Book of Queens by Joumana Haddad
Beds. Two-by-two meters of heaven and hell, where so many promises are made and broken. A tumultuous ocean of ups and downs, yeses and nos. Fouad was our bed's iceberg and I was its Titanic. Which one of us sank the other? ... Don't say sex. Sex is just a cover up. A cover up for that desperate search of oneness, that longing to forget our intrinsic loneliness. If Fouad was a thoughtful lover, would I have still cheated on him?
Jubah Laut karya Nayrouz Qarmout (diterjemahkan oleh Sasti Gotama), dari kumpulan cerpen The Sea Cloak.
Garis Pantai Gaza tidaklah bersih. Segalanya terserak tak beraturan. Bentangan pasir dikotori sampah. Tenda-tenda yang membercaki pantai tak ubahnya tumpukan jerami, adalah tempat jiwa-jiwa pemimpi berlindung, berbincang dengan khayalan terintim mereka. Begitulah keadaan Gaza sekarang: gadis yang belum mempelajari seni keanggunan. Seorang gadis yang belum menciptakan wewangiannya sendiri, dan masih—mau tak mau—tercemari wewangian di sekitarnya.
Orang-Orang Proyek oleh Ahmad Tohari
... mata ternyata benar merupakan karunia yang luar biasa. Setelah lama berada dalam lingkungan gelap, mata melakukan adaptasi. Kabul merasakannya. Kini matanya menangkap pemandangan sekitar dalam tingkat remang karena bantuan cahaya bintang dan lampu ting yang nyalanya hanya sebesar gabah. Memang, semuanya remang-remang; rimbun pohon, bantaran kali, rumpun bambu. Dan dalam jarak beberapa depa di atasnya Kabul kadang melihat kelebat kelelawar.
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The Man in the Overstuffed Chair by Tennessee Williams
This overstuffed chair, I don’t remember just when we got it. I suspect it was in the furnished apartment that we took when we first came to Saint Louis. To take the apartment we had to buy the furniture that was in it, and through this circumstance we acquired a number of pieces of furniture that would be intriguing to set designers of films about lower-middle-class life. Some of these pieces have been gradually weeded out through successive changes of address, but my father was never willing to part with the overstuffed chair. It really doesn’t look like it could be removed. It seems too fat to get through a doorway. Its color was originally blue, plain blue, but time has altered the blue to something sadder than blue, as if it had absorbed in its fabric and stuffing all the sorrows and anxieties of our family life and these emotions had become its stuffing and its pigmentation (if chairs can be said to have a pigmentation). It doesn’t really seem like a chair, though. It seems more like a fat, silent person, not silent by choice but simply unable to speak because if it spoke it would not get through a sentence without bursting into a self-pitying wail.
Over this chair still stands another veteran piece of furniture, a floor lamp that must have come with it. It rises from its round metal base on the floor to half a foot higher than a tall man sitting. Then it curves over his head one of the most ludicrous things a man has ever sat under, a sort of Chinesey-looking silk lamp shade with a fringe about it, so that it suggests a weeping willow. Which is presumably weeping for the occupant of the chair.
Kota-Kota Imajiner (Invisible Cities) oleh Italo Calvino (terjemahan Erwin Salim)
Kota tersebut tidak terdiri dari [setiap hias dan arsitekturnya], tapi tersusun dari jalinan ukuran-ukuran ruang dengan peristiwa-peristiwa masa silamnya; tingginya tiang lampu dan jarak dari tanah ke ayunan si perampas kekuasaan yang digantung; deretan garis tiang lampu ke pagar penyangga di seberangnya yang menghiasi lajur prosesi perkawinan sang ratu; tingginya pagar penyanggan dan lompatan para pezina yang memanjatnya di kala fajar; miringnya sebuah pancuran atap dan derap langkah kucing yang menyusurinya hingga tergelincir ke jendela yang sama; jarak tembak sebuah kapal meriam yang sekonyong-konyong tampak melewati semenanjung serta bom yang meluluhlantakkan pancuran atap tersebut; robekan-robekan pada jaring-jaring ikan dan tiga lelaki tua yang duduk di geladak menambalnya sambil bercerita satu sama lain untuk keseratus kalinya tentang kapal meriam miliki si perampas kekuasaan, yang konon adalah anak haram sang ratu, yang ditelantarkan dalam kain bedongnya di atas geladak.
Sewaktu gelombang-gelombang kenangan ini mengalir masuk, kota itu menghisapnya laksana spons yang mengembang. Penggambaran Zaira seperti adanya saat ini juga memuat seluruh masa lalu Zaira. Kota tersebut, bagaimana pun juga, sama sekali tidak mengungkapkan masa lalunya, tetapi memuatnya seperti garis-garis tangan, tertulis pada sudut-sudut jalanan, jeruji jendela, pegangan-pegangan tangga, antena batang-batang lampu, galah-galah bendera, ruas-ruas yang ditandai guratan-guratan, lekukan-lekukan, dan gulungan-gulungan
Thomas The Rhymer by Ellen Kushner
My voice isn’t smooth, nor my tongue quick. I know a few tunes, everyone does, but nothing like his: from me you’ll never hear songs of gentle maidens fording seven rivers for their false lover so bittersweet as to make the hardest old soldiers weep; nor yet merry ones of rich misers tricked out of their gold, with the twist of a word and a jest so neatly turned that the meanest old uncle that ever pinched a dowry still laughs without offense.
