Majorca - Adi
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I’m in Palma, between Palm, cedar, aloe, orange, lemon, fig and pomegranate trees; the type of trees that will never grow in The Garden of Plants there in Paris. The sky is turquoise, the sea blue, the mountains emerald, and the air? The air is as blue as the sky. The sun shines all day and people are dressed as in the summer time, because here it is hot. (From Chopin’s letter to Julio Fontana)

The nature, the trees, the sky, the sea, the monuments surpass all my dreams: this is the promised land! (From Sand’s letter to Carlotta Marliani)

We are planted between heaven and earth. The clouds cross our garden at their own will and pleasure, and the eagles clamor over our heads. (from a letter to Alexis Duteil)

Majorca is a paradise – if you can stand it. (Gertrude Stein)

Everything a painter or poet could ever dream of has been created by nature in this place (George Sand)

Mallorca is the El Dorado of painting (…). It is the green of Switzerland, under the sky of Calabria, with the solemnity and the silence of the Orient (George Sand)

The problem is, we really are an island. And the truth is, we really have been marooned. And to compound it all, that old myth is true: we really are sinking, just not in the way we've always been led to believe. (Judith Huang, Sofia and the Utopia Machine)

Nights and days came and passed. And summer and winter and the rain. And it was good to be a little Island. A part of the world and a world of its own. All surrounded by the bright blue sea. (Margaret Wise Brown, The Little Island)

"I hear you think of spending the winter in the Balearic Islands?" said the only Briton we met who had been there. "Well, I warn you, you won't enjoy them. They are quite out of the world. There are no tourists. Not a soul understands a word of English, and there's nothing whatever to do. If you take my advice you won't go." So we went. And what follows is a faithful account of what befell us in these fortunate isles. (The Fortunate Isles, Mary Stuart Boyd)

I’m free, I think. I shut my eyes and think hard and deep about how free I am, but I can’t really understand what it means. All I know is I’m totally alone. All alone in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who’s lost his compass and his map. Is this what it means to be free? I don’t know, and I give up thinking about it. (by Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore)

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