The Red Notebook

by Antoine Laurain

It was remarkable how, in situations like this, all the tiny details that had seemed totally insignificant an hour before suddenly seemed to conspire against you.

The tone of voice that told Laure that her life was about to collapse. Like those ice sheets weighing several tons which break off icebergs with the first thaw and slide into the frozen waters of the Antarctic.

thats such a good simile oh my god

With this device an entire library could be downloaded and carried about in a handbag. Would the printed book hold out against that marvel of technology?

Ironic

If there was one thing that defined adolescence it was hysterical laughter. You never laughed like that again. In adolescence the brutal realisation that the world and life were completely absurd made you laugh until you couldn’t catch your breath, whereas in later life it would only result in a weary sigh.

im gonna lose it

Anxiety started to show on Modiano’s face, as if he were highly disturbed by the story of the bag and would not be able to sleep because of it. Laurent had just upset one of the greatest living writers because of his amateur investigation.

The only sound was the quiet pumping of the ventilator by the neighbouring bed, which went on continuously as if it had a life of its own which would never end. The human race could die out, mortal bodies turn to dust, and this pump would go on gently rising and falling until the end of time.

‘It has no eyes, because your patients can’t see. No mouth, because they can’t talk. Just the nose to breathe through.’ The doctor looked up at William and ran his hand over the marble. ‘Four thousand years of silence,’

Belphégor had happily adopted his evening visitor. He ate up his duck-flavoured cat food, then settled unhesitatingly on Laurent’s lap, immobilising him on the sofa. It’s an honour that cats bestow on you,

‘Are you nostalgic for what could have been?’ posed by a stranger. A question he had answered truthfully: ‘Yes.’

well shoot

Can you experience nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened? We talk of ‘regrets’ about the course of our lives, when we are almost certain we have taken the wrong decision; but one can also be enveloped in a sweet and mysterious euphoria, a sort of nostalgia for what might have been.

We passed by, we passed so close that something of the experience remains.

Other men besides Xavier had been allowed access to her body, but no one else had really stepped inside her mind. It was not for want of trying: Laure simply refused to open up. It was more than she was capable of.

They helped me to find my place in the world and, in a broader sense, to prove to myself that I really existed. I suppose I must have decided at some point that I no longer needed to do that, because I gave up writing a diary, stopped telling the story of my life and tried to just live it instead.

Chloé looked straight at me, shaking her head very slowly without saying a word. I liked the fact she held my gaze; normally when I tell people, they look away and then turn back with sympathy in their eyes, and I feel like giving them a slap.

Chloé told me he has not always been a bookseller; he used to be an investment banker until one day he decided to pack it all in. As someone who has been doing the same thing for the last twenty-four years, I like the idea that it’s possible to start a new life.

I kept thinking how strange it was that we had actually spoken, although he didn’t know it.

‘It’s the story of a bookseller who finds a handbag in the street one day, takes it home with him, empties out its contents and decides to look for the woman who owns it. He succeeds but when he finds her, he runs off like an idiot.’

‘We don’t have that one, I’m afraid. In fact I don’t think it’s been written yet.’