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In his thirty-three years of life—some of it spent circling the globe more than enough times—he’d never slept on a mattress with those dimensions.
You, sir, must have never slept in an American dorm room. Can’t imagine why that wasn’t on your list of places to go.
“When love is a mistake, it’s better to run.”
He grabbed the wide-angle and the macro lens, because there was always a drop of water dripping from a handrail somewhere with just the right lack of urgency. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t have the right lens to capture that moment of urban poetry.
Once they shuffled everything around carefully, there was just enough room left in the truck to fit that little period of mourning you need before a rebirth. And those crucial memories we hold on to when moving to new places. The rest, including the piano and the metronome, they left at home in France, in case they ever returned.
Though the grandmother’s eyes were losing their green, her granddaughter’s still sparkled with the lush richness of forty—even more so when they tried to choke back emotions.
“It’s a sport for people who weren’t picked for any teams.”
“You’re thinking too narrowly. I have it all here.” Barbara pointed to her computer screen.
I work with stories, not paper.
Without even realizing it, she’d just told the story of the day that Margaux Dutronc decided to be one of life’s side characters rather than the main one.
Somewhere beyond the evasion and vague answers—behind the rotting smell of half-truths—she’d begun to notice things being hidden from her.
Happiness was putting her feet on top of her grandmother’s, holding hands, putting her head on Mamie Margaux’s belly, and letting herself be carried.
They’ll be trendy soon, you’ll see. One day, they’ll make a television series based on Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, a phenomenal book, and then everyone will want dystopian stories.
Lmao
The beginning of the last chapter in a person’s life story calls for respect.
But why would he want to preserve the tragedy of others when there was so much beauty to be photographed? How morbid.
Memories don’t blur with time—rather, their primary colors fade. Roger took out his cell phone and wrote down that idea, not thinking too hard of how it might come to use.
Only the bravest dared sit there that Friday, March 28, which had already begun its countdown to the next day.
Its countdown to MY BIRTHDAY 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉
“I search for the fall in winter, the water in the desert, the music in the silence.”
The dilemma flustered her. But she finally had someone to share the anxiety with. Blessed news.
From everything to nothing in half a second. Without the chance to say goodbye.
How do you move forward? The only possible way. Living.
And she said that, in the end, stairs don’t go up or down on their own; everything depends on us.
With each name, he made sure the musicians placed their instruments on the chair and stood up in the resigned manner of people who have lost.
Their pride went nicely with their uniforms.
The absence of details is another form of torture during war.
It was already a fascist media outlet before the fascists arrived.”
I’m familiar with the type
Truth is scarce during times of war. The reality is that Imtold’s been swallowed up by the earth.
Not everyone becomes selfish in war, like they say. There are people who help. A lot. And they do it with their hearts, risking themselves for good people. And Imtold was a hell of a good person. And friend.
Adjust to the situation, strive to live, move forward, and wait for better times to come.
Survive with the hope that this Nazi nightmare cannot last forever. Not even Hitler will be eternal. There will be a time when this world of fear, hunger, and sirens must end in some way or another.
Allow me to say it to you one more time. It’s impossible to love more than I love you as I write this letter that I hope you won’t need to read. You are my life. I love you with that old way of loving.
An orchestra is like a clock. If there’s a hand missing, the clock will continue to tick, but it will stop telling time.”
Do you know what we do with faggots? We send them on a trip. We isolate them, like the Jews, so they don’t mix with the normal population, because you know what, Herr Dirigent? Everything is contagious. Bad things are even more contagious. You’re like a virus that spreads, and no one knows how. That’s why it’s better to start from the root. Cut it in one fell swoop.”
god we're really just going backwards aren't we
In this future, this “always” from this time forward, would she be with or without Damien? With his return or just his memory? The love would be the same, but life wouldn’t. “Always yours” was, in the end, a way of giving her an order: Resist.
She felt bad for having had fun. Regret for the good times. She felt guilty for the simple fact of trying to live during a war, to live without harming anyone, betraying anyone, to live with a hate toward the German uniforms, to live clinging to her homeland and her family at their Montmartre apartment, and to live missing Dédé.
“We shouldn’t think the worst, Margi.” “Why? Why do you say that? What do you know? You, who’ve lived here your whole lives, always here, in your house, acting like nothing’s happened. It’s been eight months since they took Damien. Eight, and here we are, acting like life continues. So, no, do you understand? No.”
Every person had lost someone—the count of men who wouldn’t return was in the thousands—and while everyone wanted to go back to the normality before the occupation, the weight of the absences was heavier. Paris couldn’t be fixed overnight.
The last thing she wanted was problems. The second-to-last thing she wanted was to be embarrassed.
you're so real barbara
“You speak French well.” “It’s not hard.”
Roger careful I feel like they would kill you for that
“For me as well, ma’am. I’ve heard so much about you.” “And I didn’t even know you existed—”
You’re an icon Margaux
When life takes a daughter from you, there’s no God to speak with anymore.
“Édith was quick, clever. Nosy, I guess, like all kids who discover they’ve ended up in a world of beautiful things.
The silver frame would need bicarbonate and a scrubbing to return its shine, not unlike the poor woman, who was only an old photograph.
feeling like a robber who spends his time looking at the signatures of the canvases he steals.
“That’s it. The man who’s brightened my granddaughter’s face.” “That’s the best compliment I’ve received since I arrived in Paris.”
“Valuable?” She thought about it and picked out its advantages. “I don’t know. It’s just a life. Memories are memories. If they weigh heavily, they’re more annoying than useful.”
Second, no one can guarantee they’ll be home for dinner tomorrow. Thousands of things can happen between now and then.
I met Barbara’s grandmother, and if at eighty, Barbara has the same eyes and vitality that woman has, I’d love to be with her.”
roger I can’t help but feel very fond of you
It’s really hard to escape when they grab you and you enter a spiral of fear.’ “‘And you became their accomplice.’
You used it as a weapon of propaganda, of course. What was Signal if not a disgusting propaganda magazine? And what were your pictures of? Beautiful girls on bikes in Paris, kids playing at the zoo, the full terraces of Les Deux Magots café, the fashion, the sunglasses, the heels, despite everything going on. You showed the beauty of Paris so the world would think we were happy, that nothing was happening here, that the Germans were doing us a favor.’
