Poetry is written with tears, fiction with blood, and history with invisible ink.

Aryami Bose's home had been closed up for years, inhabited only by books and paintings, but the spectre of thousands of memories imprisoned between its walls still permeated the house.

...ответил я с энтузиазмом, которого не чувствовал.

Здесь ничто не говорило о времени, в котором мы жили. Бенджамин Сентис предпочёл для себя плюсквамперфект.

The night I met him [he] told me that, for some reason, life usually grants us what we are not looking for. He was given wealth, fame, and power, yet his soul yearned only for spiritual peace so that he could silence the shadows in his heart...

Amilyen ősi, oly biztos e tapasztalat: mondd meg, mivel dicsekszel, s én megmondom, mi hiányzik leginkább belőled.

Me abrumó la soledad que desprendía su persona y, a un tiempo, creí ver en su interior un abismo infinito al que no podía evitar asomarme.