Quotes from Patrick Modiano

We discover, often too late to talk to him about it, an episode from his life that a loved one has concealed from you. Has he really hidden it from you? He has forgotten, or more likely, over time, he no longer thinks about it. Or, quite simply, he can't find the words.

But I am a patient man. I can wait for hours in the rain.

After all, the war doesn't alter my relationship with a blade of grass.

When he was younger, he used the slightest opportunity to slip away from people, without his being able to understand very clearly why he did so: a longing to break free and to breathe in the fresh air?

Une petite fille rentre de la plage, au crépuscule, avec sa mère. Elle pleure pour rien, parce qu'elle aurait voulu continuer de jouer. Elle s'eloigne. Elle a déjà tourné le coin de rue, et nos vies ne sont-elles pas aussi rapides à se dissiper dans le soir que ce chagrin d'enfant?

Someone had told him one day that you forget the voices of those whom you have been close to in the past very quickly.

He was seeking a lost innocence and settings made for enjoyment and ease, but where one could never be happy again.

Il essayait vainement de se rappeler dans quel livre était écrit que chaque première rencontre est une blessure.

Do you often wear this dress?" He pointed to the black satin dress with the two yellow swallows. "I found it here when I rented the room. It must have belonged to the previous lodger." "Or perhaps to you, in an earlier life."

Circumstances and settings are no importance. One day this sense of emptiness and remorse submerges you. Then, like a tide, it ebbs and disappears. But in the end it returns in force, and she couldn't shake it off. Nor could I.

That is her secret. A poor and precious secret that not even the executioners, the decrees, the occupying authorities, the Depot, the barracks, the camps, History, time-everything that defiles and destroys you-have been able to take away from her.

J'ai toujours cru que certains endroits sont des aimants et que vous êtes attirés vers eux si vous marchez dans leurs parages.

Strange people. The kind that leave the merest blur behind them, soon vanished. Hutte and I often used to talk about these traceless beings. They spring up out of nothing one fine day and return there, having sparkled a little. Beauty queens. Gigolos. Butterflies. Most of them, even when alive, had no more substance than steam which will never condense.

Sundays, especially in late afternoon, if you are alone, open a breach in time.

People don't come back any more. Haven't you noticed that, Monsieur?

My wife's a lot younger than me ... thirty years difference . . . You should never marry a woman a lot younger than you ... Never ...

Il lui semblait atteindre un carrefour de sa vie, ou plutôt une lisière d'où il pourrait s'élancer vers l'avenir. Pour la première fois, il avait dans la tête le mot avenir, et un autre mot: l'horizon. Ces soirs-là, les rues désertes et silencieuses du quartier étaient des lignes de fuite, qui débouchaient toutes sur l'avenir et l'HORIZON.

One has to retire eventually, Guy.

Siempre he creído que hay lugares que son imanes y te atraen si pasas por las inmediaciones. Y eso de forma imperceptible, sin que te lo malicies siquiera. Basta con una calle en cuesta, con una acera al sol, o con una acera a la sombra. O con un chaparrón. Y te llevan a ese lugar, al punto preciso en el que debías encallar.

il semble que ce qui vous pousse brusquement à la fugue, ce soit un jour de froid et de grisaille qui vous rend encore plus vive la solitude et vous fait sentir encore plus fort qu'un étau se resserre.

l'un de ces dimanches doux et ensoleillés d'hiver où vous éprouvez un sentiment de vacance et d'éternité – le sentiment illusoire que le cours du temps est suspendu, et qu'il suffit de se laisser glisser par cette brèche pour échapper à l'étau qui va se refermer sur vous.

J'ai longtemps été persuadé que l'on ne pouvait faire de vraies rencontres que dans la rue.

Yes, this man had the persistence of an insect.

He had written this book only in the hope that she might get in touch with him. Writing a book, for him, was also a way of beaming a searchlight or sending out coded signals to certain people with whom he had lost touch. It was enough to scatter their names at random through the pages and wait until they finally produced news of themselves.