Quotes from Marguerite Duras

he's a man who must make love a lot, a man who's afraid, he must make love a lot to fight against the fear.

She has a golden laugh, fit to wake the dead

The only times she did speak was to say how impossible it was for her to express how boring and long it was, how interminable it was, to be Lol Stein. They asked her to try and pull herself together. She didn't understand why she should, she said. The difficulty she experienced in searching for a single word seemed insurmountable. She acted as though she expected nothing further from life.

Ng??i ta cô Ä'Æ¡n ??n t?n trong ná»—i cô Ä'Æ¡n c?a chính mình. Luôn không th? t??ng t??ng ???c. Luôn nguy hi?m. Vâng. Cái giá ph?i tr? vì Ä'ã dám Ä'i ra ngoài và kêu lên.

they go along together without any sign of impatience, in the way they are alone in a crowd, without happiness, it seems, without sadness, without curiosity, going along without seeming to, without meaning to just going this way rather than that, alone in the crowd, never alone even by themselves, always alone even in the crowd.

the mysterious death of lovers without love.

There is also some of that in the function of writing, and perhaps first and foremost it means telling oneself every day that one mustn't kill oneself, so long as every day one could kill oneself. That

I don't know if love's a feeling. Sometimes I think it's a matter of seeing. Seeing you.

He smells pleasantly of English cigarettes, expensive perfume, honey, his skin has taken on the scent of silk, the fruity smell of silk tussore, the smell of gold . . .

I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.

To level the terrain, to dig down into it, to open the tombs wherein Lol is feigning death, seems to me fairer - given the necessity to fill in the missing links of Lol Stein's story - than to fabricate mountains, create obstacles, rely on chance. And, knowing this woman, I believe she would prefer that I compensate in this way for the lack of cold, hard facts about her life.

I was afraid of myself, afraid of God.

You go on talking, all alone in the world, just as you wish. You say love has always struck you as out of place, you've never understood, you've always avoided loving, always wanted to be free not to. You say you're lost. You that you don't know what you're lost to. Or in.

No matter where she is, it is as though Lol is there for the first time. She no longer experiences the invariable distance that memory provides: she is there, in the present.

Ici l'espoir est entier, la douleur est implantée dans l'espoir. Parfois je m'étonne de ne pas mourir : une lame glacée enfoncée profond dans la chair vivante, de nuit, de jour et on survit.

The space for it existed in me. I knew it the same as other people, but, strangely, in advance.

You go on talking, all alone in the world, just as you wish. You say love has always struck you as out of place, you've never understood, you've always avoided loving, always wanted to be free not to. You say you're lost. But that you don't know what you're lost to. Or in.

N?u ng??i ta bi?t gì Ä'ó v? Ä'i?u mình s? vi?t, trÆ°á»›c khi làm Ä'i?u Ä'ó, trÆ°á»›c khi vi?t, ng??i ta s? không bao gi? vi?t. Ch?ng c?n.

En Vauville, el recuerdo del canto de la mendiga vuelve a mí. Ese canto tan simple. El de los locos, de todos los locos, por todas partes, los de la indiferencia. El de la muerte fácil. Los de la muerte por obra del hambre, la de los muertos de los caminos, de las fosas, medio devorados por los perros, los tigres, las aves de presa, las ratas gigantes de los pantanos.

Pero no teníamos hambre, nosotros teníamos un criado y comíamos, a veces, es cierto, porquerías, zancudas, caimanes, pero tales porquerías estaban cocinadas por un criado y servidas por él y a veces incluso no las queríamos, nos permitíamos el lujo de no querer comer.

Suddenly I see myself as another, as another would be seen, outside myself, available to all, available to all eyes, in circulation for cities, journeys, desire.

It is said that in that distant place, almost at the end of the Ganges, where she sleeps in a darkened room with her lover, she is subject to moods of profound melancholy.

Vi?t v?n là tìm cách bi?t trÆ°á»›c ???c mình s? vi?t gì n?u mình vi?t - ng??i ta ch? bi?t Ä'i?u này sau Ä'ó - còn trÆ°á»›c Ä'ó, là câu h?i hóc búa nh?t mà ng??i ta có th? ??t ra cho mình. NhÆ°ng cÅ©ng là câu h?i lá»›n nh?t.

I know Lol Stein in the only way I can: through love.