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A Book Consists Of Two Layers: On Top, The Readable Layer ... And Underneath, A Layer That Was Inaccessible. You Only Sense Its Existence In A Moment Of Distraction From The Literal Reading, The Way You See Childhood Through A Child. It Would Take Forever To Tell What You See, And It Would Be Pointless.

-Marguerite Duras

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A Book Consists Of

Marguerite Duras

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A Book Consists Of Two Layers: On Top, The Readable Layer ... And Underneath, A Layer That Was Inaccessible. You Only Sense Its Existence In A Moment Of Distraction From The Literal Reading, The Way You See Childhood Through A Child. It Would Take Forever To Tell What You See, And It Would Be Pointless.

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Paradoxically, The Freedom Of Paris Is Associated With A Persistent Belief That Nothing Ever Changes. Paris, They Say, Is The City That Changes Least. After An Absence Of Twenty Or Thirty Years, One Still Recognizes It.

Even So You Have Managed To Live That Love In The Only Way Possible For You. Losing It Before It Happened.

I Seldom Read On Beaches Or In Gardens. You Can't Read By Two Lights At Once, The Light Of Day And The Light Of The Book. You Should Read By Electric Light, The Room In Shadow, And Only The Page Lit Up.

I Meet You. I Remember You. Who Are You? You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. How Could I Know This City Was Tailor-made For Love? How Could I Know You Fit My Body Like A Glove? I Like You. How Unlikely. I Like You. How Slow All Of A Sudden. How Sweet. You Cannot Know. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. I Have Time. Please, Devour Me. Deform Me To The Point Of Ugliness. Why Not You? Why Not You In This City And In This Night, So Like Other Cities And Other Nights You Can Hardly Tell The Difference? I Beg Of You.

She Represents The Un-vowed Aspiration Of The Male Human Being, His Potential Infidelity - And Infidelity Of A Very Special Kind, Which Would Lead Him To The Opposite Of His Wife, To The Woman Of Wax Whom He Could Model At Will, Make And Unmake In Any Way He Wished, Even Unto Death.

What She Said Was Always Strange. It Had Happened Long Ago. It Seemed Insignificant. And Yet It Was Something You Remembered Forever. The Words As Well As The Story. The Voice As Much As The Words.

I Know It's Not Clothes That Make Women Beautiful Or Otherwise, Nor Beauty Care, Nor Expensive Creams, Nor The Distinction Of Costliness Of Their Finery. I Know The Problem Lies Elsewhere. I Don't Know Where. I Only Know It Isn't Where Women Think.

He Wanted To Pay Her; He Thought Women Ought To Be Paid For Keeping Men From Dying Or Going Out Of Their Minds.

I Have Never Waited For Anything The Way I've Waited For Today, When Nothing Will Happen.

Alcohol Is Barren. The Words A Man Speaks In The Night Of Drunkenness Fade Like The Darkness Itself At The Coming Of Day.

Alcohol Doesn't Console, It Doesn't Fill Up Anyone's Psychological Gaps, All It Replaces Is The Lack Of God. It Doesn't Comfort Man. On The Contrary, It Encourages Him In His Folly, It Transports Him To The Supreme Regions Where He Is Master Of His Own Destiny.

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Nowhere Is One More Alone Than In Paris ... And Yet Surrounded By Crowds. Nowhere Is One More Likely To Incur Greater Ridicule. And No Visit Is More Essential.

Words Don't Change Their Shape, They Change Their Meaning, Their Function...they Don't Have A Meaning Of Their Own Any More, They Refer To Other Words That You Don't Know, That You've Never Read Or Heard...you've Never Seen Their Shape, But You Feel...you Suspect...they Correspond To...an Empty Space Inside You...or In The Universe.

In A Thousand Years Time This Day Will Have Existed For A Thousand Years To The Day. And The Ignorance Of The Whole World About What They've Said Today Will Have A Date Too.

A Woman's Work, From The Time She Gets Up To The Time She Goes To Bed, Is As Hard As A Day At War, Worse Than A Man's Working Day. ... To Men, Women's Work Was Like The Rain-bringing Clouds, Or The Rain Itself. The Task Involved Was Carried Out Every Day As Regularly As Sleep. So Men Were Happy - Men In The Middle Ages, Men At The Time Of The Revolution, And Men In 1986: Everything In The Garden Was Lovely.

Their Voices Reach Out Into The Empty Yard, Plunge Deep Into The Hills, Go Right Through The Heart.

To Love One Child And To Love All Children, Whether Living Or Dead -somewhere These Two Loves Come Together. To Love A No-good But Humble Punk And To Love An Honest Man Who Believes Himself To Be An Honest Man -somewhere These, Too, Come Together.

Madness Is Like Intelligence, You Know. You Can't Explain It. Just Like Intelligence. It Comes On You, It Fills You, And Then You Understand It. But When It Goes Away You Can't Understand It At All Any Longer.

I Know All One Can Know When One Knows Nothing.

We, Her Children, Are Heroic, Dersperate.

The Words Emerge From Her Body Without Her Realizing It, As If She Were Being Visited By The Memory Of A Language Long Forsaken.

You Alone Became The Outer Surface Of My Life, The Side I Never See, And You Will Be That, The Unknown Part Of Me, Until I Die.

Alcohol Doesn't Console, It Doesn't Fill Up Anyone's Psychological Gaps, All It Replaces Is The Lack Of God.

Suddenly, All At Once, She Knows, Knows That He Doesn't Understand Her, That He Never Will, That He Lacks The Power To Understand Such Perverseness. And That He Can Never Move Fast Enough To Catch Her.

I See Journalists As The Manual Workers, The Laborers Of The Word. Journalism Can Only Be Literature When It Is Passionate.

Heterosexuality Is Dangerous. It Tempts You To Aim At A Perfect Duality Of Desire.

Heterosexuality Is

Very Early In My Life It Was Too Late.

That She Had So Completely Recovered Her Sanity Was A Source Of Sadness To Her. One Should Never Be Cured Of One's Passion.

When A Woman Drinks It's As If An Animal Were Drinking, Or A Child. Alcoholism Is Scandalous In A Woman, And A Female Alcoholic Is Rare, A Serious Matter. It's A Slur On The Divine In Our Nature.

People Come To Paris, To The Capital, To Give Their Lives A Sense Of Belonging, Of An Almost Mythical Participation In Society.

The House A Woman Creates Is A Utopia. She Can't Help It - Can't Help Trying To Interest Her Nearest And Dearest Not In Happiness Itself But In The Search For It.

When The Past Is Recaptured By The Imagination, Breath Is Put Back Into Life.

War Is A Generality, So Are The Inevitabilities Of War, Including Death.

Stormy Skies, Says Ernesto. He Grieved For Them. Summer Rain. Childhood.

He Says He’s Lonely, Horribly Lonely Because Of This Love He Feels For Her. She Says She’s Lonely Too. She Doesn’t Say Why.

It's Afterwards You Realize That The Feeling Of Happiness You Had With A Man Didn't Necessarily Prove That You Loved Him.

I'm Still There, Watching Those Possessed Children, As Far Away From The Mystery Now As I Was Then. I've Never Written, Though I Thought I Wrote, Never Loved, Though I Thought I Loved, Never Done Anything But Wait Outside The Closed Door.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

I Suddenly Remember Something I've Been Told About Fear. That Amid A Hail Of Machine Gun Fire You Notice The Existence Of Your Skin.

Life Is Only Lived Full-time By Women With Children.

We’re In The Vanguard Of A Nameless Battle, A Battle Without Arms Or Bloodshed Or Glory: We’re In The Vanguard Of Waiting.

Banality Is Sometimes Striking.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

Perhaps Someone Will Have Seen Mine, The One I’m Waiting For, Just As I Saw Him, In A Ditch When His Hands Were Making Their Last Appeal And His Eyes No Longer Could See. Someone Who Will Never Know What That Man Was To Me; Someone Whose Name I’ll Never Know.

Journalism Without A Moral Position Is Impossible. Every Journalist Is A Moralist. It's Absolutely Unavoidable. A Journalist Is Someone Who Looks At The World And The Way It Works, Someone Who Takes A Close Look At Things Every Day And Reports What She Sees, Someone Who Represents The World, The Event, For Others. She Cannot Do Her Work Without Judging What She Sees.

There Are Many Women Who Write As They Think They Should Write - To Imitate Men And Make A Place For Themselves In Literature.

You Have To Be Very Fond Of Men. Very, Very Fond. You Have To Be Very Fond Of Them To Love Them. Otherwise They're Simply Unbearable.

Oh, How Good It Is To Be With Someone, Sometimes.

In Love There Are No Vacations. No Such Thing. Love Has To Be Lived Fully With Its Boredom And All That.

A Prolonged Silence Ensues. The Reason For The Silence Is Our Growing Interest One For The Other. No One Is Aware Of It, No One Yet; No One? Am I Quite Sure?

The Thing That's Between Us Is Fascination, And The Fascination Resides In Our Being Alike. Whether You're A Man Or A Woman, The Fascination Resides In Finding Out That We're Alike.

She Says People Ought To Learn To Live Like Them, With The Body Abandoned In A Wilderness, And In The Mind The Memory Of A Single Kiss, A Single Word, A Single Look To Stand For A Whole Love.

Men Like Women Who Write. Even Though They Don't Say So. A Writer Is A Foreign Country.

A Writer Is A Foreign Country

Foreign Countries

Before They're Plumbers Or Writers Or Taxi Drivers Or Unemployed Or Journalists, Before Everything Else, Men Are Men. Whether Heterosexual Or Homosexual. The Only Difference Is That Some Of Them Remind You Of It As Soon As You Meet Them, And Others Wait For A Little While.

I Acquired That Drinker's Face Before I Drank. Drink Only Confirmed It. The Space For It Existed In Me.

Journalism Without A Moral Position Is Impossible. Every Journalist Is A Moralist. It's Absolutely Unavoidable.

Frigidity Is Desire Imagined By A Woman Who Doesnt Desire The Man Offering Himself To Her. Its The Desire Of A Woman For A Man Who Hasnt Yet Come To Her, Whom She Doesnt Yet Know. Shes Faithful To This Stranger Even Before She Belongs To Him. Frigidity Is The Non-desire For Whatever Is Not Him.

When You Wept It Was Just Over Yourself And Not Because Of The Marvelous Impossibility Of Reaching Her Through The Difference That Separates You.

For That's What A Woman, A Mother Wants - To Teach Her Children To Take An Interest In Life. She Knows It's Safer For Them To Be Interested In Other People's Happiness Than To Believe In Their Own.

The Best Way To Fill Time Is To Waste It.

All That Remains Of That Minute Is Time In All Its Purity, Bone-white Time.

I Don't Have General Views About Anything, Except Social Injustice.

When It's In A Book I Don't Think It'll Hurt Any More ...exist Any More. One Of The Things Writing Does Is Wipe Things Out. Replace Them.

It's Only Women Who Are Not Really Quite Women At All, Frivolous Women Who Have No Idea, Who Neglect Repairs.

Some People Are Like That - Closed - They Can't Learn From Anyone. Us, For Example, We Can't Learn Anything, Neither I From You Nor You From Me, Nor From Anyone, Nor From Anything, Nor From What Happens.

The Outrage Was On The Scale Of God. My Younger Brother Was Immortal And They Hadn't Noticed. Immortality Had Been Concealed In My Brother's Body While He Was Alive, And We Hadn't Noticed That It Dwelt There. Now My Brother's Body Was Dead, And Immortality With It. ... And The Error, The Outrage, Filled The Whole Universe.

She Had Lived Her Early Years As Though She Were Waiting For Something She Might, But Never Did, Become.

It’s Not That You Have To Achieve Anything, It’s That You Have To Get Away From Where You Are.

In A Certain State Of Mind, All Trace Of Feeling Is Banished. Whenever I Remain Silent In A Certain Way, I Don't Love You, Have You Noticed That?

A Book Consists Of Two Layers: On Top, The Readable Layer ... And Underneath, A Layer That Was Inaccessible. You Only Sense Its Existence In A Moment Of Distraction From The Literal Reading, The Way You See Childhood Through A Child. It Would Take Forever To Tell What You See, And It Would Be Pointless.

Drinking Isn't Necessarily The Same As Wanting To Die. But You Can't Drink Without Thinking You're Killing Yourself.

One Must Talk. That's How It Is. One Must.

A House Means A Family House, A Place Specially Meant For Putting Children And Men In So As To Restrict Their Waywardness And Distract Them From The Longing For Adventure And Escape They've Had Since Time Began.

Our Mothers Always Remain The Strangest, Craziest People We've Ever Met.

...as Long As Nothing Happens Between Them, The Memory Is Cursed With What Hasn't Happened.

It Was The Men I Deceived The Most That I Loved The Most.

You Are What You Are And That Fascinates Me.

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.

In Heterosexual Love There's No Solution. Man And Woman Are Irreconcilable, And It's The Doomed Attempt To Do The Impossible, Repeated In Each New Affair, That Lends Heterosexual Love Its Grandeur.

Fidelity, Enforced And Unto Death, Is The Price You Pay For The Kind Of Love You Never Want To Give Up, For Someone You Want To Hold Forever, Tighter And Tighter, Whether He's Close Or Far Away, Someone Who Becomes Dearer To You The More You've Sacrificed For His Sake.

Finding Yourself In A Hole, At The Bottom Of A Hole, In Almost Total Solitude, And Discovering That Only Writing Can Save You. To Be Without The Slightest Subject For A Book, The Slightest Idea For A Book, Is To Find Yourself, Once Again, Before A Book. A Vast Emptiness. A Possible Book. Before Nothing. Before Something Like Living, Naked Writing, Like Something Terrible, Terrible To Overcome.

Get Rid Of Things Or You'll Spend Your Whole Life Tidying Up.

What Stops You Killing Yourself When You're Intoxicated Out Of Your Mind Is The Thought That Once You're Dead You Won't Be Able To Drink Any More.

I Believe That Always, Or Almost Always, In All Childhoods And In All The Lives That Follow Them, The Mother Represents Madness. Our Mothers Always Remain The Strangest, Craziest People We've Ever Met.

No Other Human Being, No Woman, No Poem Or Music, Book Or Painting Can Replace Alcohol In Its Power To Give Man The Illusion Of Real Creation.

I've Forgotten The Words With Which To Tell You. I Knew Them Once, But I've Forgotten Them, And Now I'm Talking To You Without Them.

I've Known You For Years. Everyone Says You Were Beautiful When You Were Young, But I Want To Tell You I Think You're More Beautiful Now Than Then. Rather Than Your Face As A Young Woman, I Prefer Your Face As It Is Now. Ravaged.

In Homosexual Love The Passion Is Homosexuality Itself. What A Homosexual Loves, As If It Were His Lover, His Country, His Art, His Land, Is Homosexuality.

I Often Think Of The Image Only I Can See Now, And Of Which I’ve Never Spoken. It’s Always There, In The Same Silence, Amazing. It’s The Only Image Of Myself I Like, The Only One In Which I Recognize Myself, In Which I Delight

The Woman Is The Home. That's Where She Used To Be, And That's Where She Still Is. You Might Ask Me, What If A Man Tries To Be Part Of The Home -- Will The Woman Let Him? I Answer Yes. Because The He Becomes One Of The Children.

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