behind closed doors.
cobblestone streets, dark chocolate, breakfast any time of day, food trucks, exploring cities, coffee shops, scarves, watching snow accumulate, unexpected adventures, grapefruit, foreign languages, photography, speculoos, musicals, macarons, flat whites, reading all day, oatmeal, cardigans, typography
The end of a trip leaves me with a sad aftertaste the same as the end of a novel. […] I do not love myself. I do not hate myself. […] When I am returning from a trip, the best part is not going through the airport or getting home, but the taxi ride in between: you’re still traveling, but not really. […] When I make lists of names, I dread the ones I forget. […] I do not explain. I do not excuse. I do not classify. I go fast. I am drawn to the brevity of English, shorter than French. I do not name the people I talk about to someone who doesn’t know them, I use, despite the trouble of it, abstract descriptions like “that friend whose parachute got tangled up with another parachute the time he jumped.” I prefer going to bed to getting up, but I prefer living to dying. I look more closely at old photographs than contemporary ones, they are smaller, and their details are more precise. […] Sometimes I realize that what I’m in the middle of saying is boring, so I just stop talking. Art that unfolds over time gives me less pleasure than art that stops it. Even if it is an odd sort of present, I thank my father and mother for having given me life. […] When I ask for directions, I am afraid I won’t be able to remember what people tell me. I am always shocked when people give me directions and they actually get me where I’m going: words become road. […] I do not write memoirs. I do not write novels. I do not write short stories. I do not write plays. I do not write poems. I do not write mysteries. I do not write science fiction. I write fragments. I do not tell stories from things I’ve read or movies I’ve seen, I describe impressions, I make judgments. The modern man I sing. […] Often, I wish it were tomorrow. […] I wonder where the dreams go that I don’t remember. I do not know what to do with my hands when they have nothing to do. […] The best day of my life may already be behind me.

Édouard Levé, Autoportrait, “When I Look at a Strawberry, I think of a Tongue”

(http://www.theparisreview.org/letters-essays/6078/when-i-look-at-a-strawberry-i-think-of-a-tongue-edouard-leve)

I think anybody who falls in love is a freak. It’s a crazy thing to do. It’s kind of like a form of socially acceptable insanity.
Her (2013)
The past is just a story we tell ourselves.
Her (2013)
Sometimes I think I have felt everything I’m ever gonna feel. And from here on out, I’m not gonna feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I’ve already felt.
Her (2013)
Elle ne sait pas qui je suis maintenant, elle a même oublié qui j’étais. // She doesn’t know who I am now, and she’s even forgotten who I was.
Nathalie Sarraute, Enfance

Tout le monde sait comment on fait les bébés
Mais personne sait comment on fait des papas

(Source: Spotify)

Rien n’est plus difficile que de peindre un homme que l’on connaît trop. Par où commencer?

Nothing is more difficult than describing a man one knows too well. Where do you start?


Vercors, Le Silence de la mer, « La Marche à l’étoile »

Fallin’ from the sky
There are raindrops in my eyes
And my thoughts are diggin’ in the backyard
My roots have grown but I don’t know where they are

(Source: Spotify)

I could imagine it, I could remember it. But I couldn’t see it again, and it occurred to me that the voracious ambition of humans is never sated by dreams coming true, because there is always the thought that everything might be done better and again.
John Green, The Fault in Our Stars, Ch. 25
You have a choice in the world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories.
John Green, The Fault in Our Stars, Ch. 13
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