Quotes from Marguerite Duras

cette tristesse [...] , je pourrais presque lui donner mon nom tellement elle me ressemble

L'air était bleu, on le prenait dans la main. Bleu. Le ciel était cette palpitation continue de cette brillance de la lumière. La nuit éclairait tout, toute la campagne de chaque rive du fleuve jusqu'aux limites de la vue.

Sa main ouverte posée sur mon bras préfigure un avenir multiforme et unique, main rayonnante et unie aux phalanges courbées, cassées, d'une légèreté de plume et qui ont, pour moi, la nouveauté d'une fleur.

Je suis devenue folle en pleine raison.

Sometimes her heart and head are invaded by upheavals, analyses, syntheses, wrenching turmoil, bright hopes, crushed expectations, precipices around which thought wanders shivering and dazed, unable to make sense of anything. (Wartime Notebooks)

quelques fois, quand je le regarde c'est comme si je regardais ma vie et c'est pas beau à voir

Her eyes are like velvet, the way only dark eyes can be, hers now are a mixture of still water and silt, revealing nothing at present except a kind of drowsy sweetness.

That people kill themselves because of my books won't stop me from writing. If people turned into reactionaries, political assholes after reading me, yes, that would stop me from writing, but not if they killed themselves.

Ça a toujours été trop tard pour ne plus vous aimer.

Sono come voglio apparire, anche bella se gli altri lo vogliono, o carina, carina diciamo per i familiari, per loro e basta, insomma posso diventare come gli altri vogliono che sia. E credici. Anche credere che sono affascinante. Dal momento che lo credo, so anche farlo diventare vero agli occhi di chi mi vede e desidera che io sia di suo gusto.

Il difficile non è raggiungere qualcosa, è liberarsi dalla condizione in cui si è.

Ma poi glielo aveva detto. Le aveva detto che era come prima, che l'amava ancora, che non avrebbe potuto mai smettere d'amarla, che l'avrebbe amata fino alla morte.

It's as if this must be not only what she expects, but also what had to happen especially to her.

Michael Richardson's eyes had grown brighter. His face had tightened into the full of maturity. Pain was etched upon it, ancient, primordial pain. The moment they saw him again this way, they knew that nothing—no word, no earthly act of violence-could have the least effect upon the change in Michael Richardson. That it now had to be played out to the bitter end. Michael Richardson's new tale had already begun to take shape.

People are saying: 'Look, there are times when her expression is so severe that it quite alters her. Her beauty changes to... It's hard to interpret. Is it an expression of ferocity or something quite different–compassion?

C'est curieux, un écrivain. C'est une contradiction et aussi un non-sens. Écrire, c'est aussi ne pas parler. C'est se taire. C'est hurler sans bruit.

Because I have the feeling that if I tried to say what I really want to say to you, everything would crumble into dust–' he is trembling–'for what I want to say...to you... from me to you... there are no words. I should fumble... I should say something different from what I intended... one thing leads to another.

The dance is over.

I notice that I desire him.

C'est la même chose, la même pitié, le même appel au secours, la même débilité du jugement, la même superstition disons, qui consiste à croire à la solution politique du problème personnel.

Má»™t cu?n sách m? ra, Ä'ó cÅ©ng là Ä'êm t?i...

Death came before the end of his story. When he was still alive it had already happened.

Écrire, c'est hurler sans bruit.

L´homme se croit un héros, toujours comme l´enfant. L´homme aime la guerre, la chasse, la pêche, les motos, les autos, comme l´enfant. Quand il dort, ca se voit, et on aime les hommes comme ca, les femmes. Il ne faut passe mentir là-dessus. On aime les hommes innocents, cruels, on aime les chasseurs, les guerriers, on aime les enfants.