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.
Marguerite DurasVery early in my life it was too late.
Marguerite DurasThe 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.
Marguerite DurasTags: writing-solitude
...as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened.
Marguerite DurasWhen the past is recaptured by the imagination, breath is put back into life.
Marguerite DurasWhen 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.
Marguerite DurasTags: writers-on-writing
Hélène Lagonelle’s body is heavy, innocent still, her skin’s as soft as that of certain fruits, you almost can’t grasp her, she’s almost illusory, it’s too much. She makes you want to kill her, she conjures up a marvelous dream of putting her to death with your own hands. Those flour-white shapes, she bears them unknowingly, and offers them for hands to knead, for lips to eat, without holding them back, without any knowledge of them and without any knowledge of their fabulous power. I’d like to eat Hélène Lagonelle’s breasts as he eats mine in the room in the Chinese town where I go every night to increase my knowledge of God. I’d like to devour and be devoured by those flour-white breasts of hers.
I am worn out with desire for Hélène Lagonelle.
I am worn out with desire.
I want to take Hélène Lagonelle with me to where every evening, my eyes shut, I have imparted to me the pleasure that makes you cry out. I’d like to give Hélène Lagonelle to the man who does that to me, so he may do it in turn to her. I want it to happen in my presence, I want her to do it as I wish, I want her to give herself where I give myself. It’s via Hélène Lagonelle’s body, through it, that the ultimate pleasure would pass from him to me.
A pleasure unto death.
Sometimes,’ she said, ‘I think I must have invented him.’
I know all I want to about your child,’ Chauvin said harshly.
Anne Desbaresdes moaned again, louder than before. Again she put her hand on the table. His eyes followed her movement and finally, painfully, he understood and lifted his own leaden hand and placed it on hers. Their hands were so cold they were touching only in intention, an illusion, in order for this to be fulfilled, for the sole reason that it should be fulfilled, none other, it was no longer possible. And yet, with their hands frozen in this funereal pose, Anne Desbaresdes stopped moaning.
One last time,’ she begged, ‘tell me about it one last time.’
Chauvin hesitated, his eyes somewhere else, still fixed on the back wall. Then he decided to tell her about it as if it were a memory.
He had never dreamed, before meeting her, that he would one day want anything so badly.’
And she acquiesced completely?’
Wonderfully.’
Anne Desbaresdes looked at Chauvin absently. Her voice became thin, almost childlike.
I'd like to understand why his desire to have it happen one day was so wonderful?’
Chauvin still avoided looking at her. Her voice was steady, wooden, the voice of a deaf person.
There's no use trying to understand. It's beyond understanding.’
You mean there are some things like that that can't be gone into?’
I think so.’
Anne Desbaresdes' expression became dull, almost stupid. Her lips had turned pale, they were gray and trembled as though she were on the verge of tears.
She does nothing t try and stop him?’ she whispered.
No. Have a little more wine.’
She sipped her wine. He also drank, and his lips on the glass were also trembling.
Time,’ he said
Does it take a long time, a very long time?’
Yes, a very long time. But I don't know anything.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Like you, I don't know anything. Nothing at all.’
Anne Desbaresdes forced back her tears. Her voice was normal, momentarily awake.
She will never speak again,’ she said.
Tags: chapter-8 pages-115-116
Life is only lived full-time by women with children.
Marguerite DurasTags: children-life-women
The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.
Marguerite DurasPage 1 of 11.
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