In the Café of Lost Youth (New York Review Books Classics)

by Patrick Modiano

I’ve always believed that certain places are like magnets and draw you towards them should you happen to walk within their radius. And this occurs imperceptibly, without you even suspecting. All it takes is a sloping street, a sunny sidewalk, or maybe a shady one. Or perhaps a downpour. And this leads you straight there, to the exact spot you’re meant to wash up.

For me, the Condé was a refuge from all the drabness I anticipated in life. There will one day be a part of me—the best part—that I will be forced to leave behind there.

Later I revisited that same intoxication every time I broke off all ties with someone. I was never really myself when I wasn’t running away. My only happy memories are memories of flight and escape. But life always regained the upper hand.

“I’ve got to admit something to you. I was inches away from having a crazy laughing fit that night.” “You should have let it out,” he chided me. “Laughter is infectious. We all would have had a laugh in the dark.”