The tender June day persisted, refusing to die. Each pulse of light was fainter and more exquisite than the last, as if bidding farewell to the earth, full of love and regret.
Irène NémirovskyEvil is visible, it burns, it smugly displays itself for all to see.
Irène NémirovskyThen a dark shape would glide across the star-covered sky, everyone would look up and the laughter would stop. It wasn't exactly what you'd call fear, rather a strange sadness--a sadness that had nothing human about it any more, for it lacked both courage and hope. This was how animals waited to die. It was the way fish caught in a net watch the shadow of the fisherman moving back and forth above them.
Irène NémirovskyAn enemy soldier never seemed to be alone--one human being like any other--but followed, crushed from all directions by innumerable ghosts, the missing and the dead. Speaking to him wasn't like speaking to a solitary man but to an invisible multitude; nothing that was said was either spoken or heard with simplicity: there was always that strange sensation of being no more than lips that spoke for so many others, others who had been silenced.
Irène NémirovskyNo one quite knew why, but they felt light-hearted. Maybe it was because of the beautiful weather. The sky, so blue, seemed gently to bow down towards the horizon and caress the earth.
Irène NémirovskyMothers and women in love: both ferocious females.
Irène NémirovskyI keep telling you, you don't pay enough attention to the minor characters. A novel should be like a street full of strangers, where no more than two or three people are known to us in depth.
Irène NémirovskyHe hated the war; it threatened much more than his lifestyle or peace of mind. It continually destroyed the world of the imagination, the only world where he felt happy.
Irène NémirovskyAncora un'ora persa, sprofondata nel nulla, che è colata via tra le dita come acqua e che non tornerà più... "Vorrei andarmene lontano, oppure morire...".
Irène NémirovskyWhen I was born I was so surprised I didn't talk for a year and a half.
Irène NémirovskyTags: humor
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