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.
Marguerite DurasA 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?
Marguerite DurasNunca escrevi julgando fazê-lo nunca amei julgando amar nunca fiz nada senão esperar diante da porta fechada.
Marguerite DurasTags: life-waiting
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.
Marguerite DurasTags: aging-gracefully aging
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.
Marguerite DurasHe 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.
Marguerite DurasTags: love lonely marguerite-duras the-lover
Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.
Marguerite DurasStormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.
Marguerite DurasWords 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...
Marguerite DurasMen like women who write, even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country.
Marguerite DurasTags: women-writers
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