ANTHONY DOERR is the author of the story collections Memory Wall and The Shell Collector, the novel About Grace, and the memoir Four Seasons in Rome. He has won numerous prizes both in the United Stat...
All the Light We Cannot Seeby Anthony Doerr4.27 of 5 stars 4.27 avg rating — 102,371 ratings published 2014Librarian note: an alternate cover for this edition can be found here. Marie-Laure lives with...
All those Parisian mothers pushing buggies through the Jardin des Plantes or holding up cardigans in department stores—it seemed to him that those women nodded to each other as they passed, as though...
And doesn't a writer do the same thing? Isn't she knitting together scraps of dreams? She hunts down the most vivid details and links them in sequences that will let a reader see, smell, and hear a wo...
And is it so hard to believe that souls might also travel those paths? That her father and Etienne and Madame Manec and the German boy named Werner Pfennig might harry the sky in flocks, like egrets,...
And yet by early autumn, once or twice a week, at certain moments of the day, sitting out in the Jardin des Plantes beneath the massive hedges or reading beside her father’s workbench, Marie-Laure loo...
At night she runs her fingertips over her father’s model: the bell tower, the display windows. She imagines Jules Verne’s characters walking along the streets, chatting in shops; a half-inch-tall bake...
At night she’d close her eyes and imagine: over a hundred million billion insects hatching and dying every year—all those bristling, pointed, winged lifetimes: murderers and egg raiders, cooperators a...
Bastian speaks to a horror of any sort of corruption, and yet, Werner wonders in the dead of night, isn't life a kind of corruption?
Before that, before it was ever a hotel at all, five full centuries ago, it was the home of a wealthy privateer who gave up raiding ships to study bees in the pastures outside Saint-Malo, scribbling i...
Can deaf people hear their heartbeat?
Cars growl in the streets; leaves whisper in the sky; blood rustles through her inner ears. In the stairwell, in the kitchen, even beside her bed, grown-up voices speak of despair.
Ce n'est pas la réalite.
Clair de Lune, a song that makes her think of leaves fluttering, and of the hard ribbons of sand beneath her feet at low tide. The music slinks and rises and settles back to earth,
Cold demanded a sharper, simpler view of things: in those temperatures death hovered at the margins, offering clarity, providing precision. But it blurred things, too: the border between dreams and wa...
Crack. Pause. Crack. Pause. Then the long scream as the
Dentro de su pecho late algo enorme, algo lleno deseo, algo que ya no siente temor.
Did you know, says Marie-Laure, that the chance of being hit by lightning is one in one million? Dr. Geffard taught me that.In one year or in one lifetime?I'm not sure.You should have asked.
Did you know, says Marie-Laure, that the chance of being hit by lightning is one in one million? Dr. Geffard taught me that. In one year or in one lifetime? I’m not sure. You should have asked.
Disgrace is not to fall but to lie.
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