Every outcome has its cause, and every predicament has its solution. Every lock its key.
Every hour, she thinks, someone for whom the war was memory falls out of the world. We rise again in the grass. In the flowers. In songs.
Don’t you ever get tired of believing, Madame? Don’t you ever want proof? Madame Manec rests a hand on Marie-Laure’s forehead. The thick hand that first reminded her of a gardener’s or a geologist’s....
Death can seem so final, like a blade dropped through the neck. But the nature of death is not at all final. It is not some dark cliff off which we leap. I hope to show you it is merely a fog, somethi...
Dar Dumnezeu e doar un ochi alb si rece, un sfert de luna atarnand deasupra fumului, clipind într-una, in timp ce orașul e facut praf si pulbere.
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,
Ce n'est pas la réalite.
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.
Audubon,
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...
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...
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...
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,...
A real diamond, his father used to say, is never entirely free of inclusions. A real diamond is never perfect.
A real diamond is never entirely free of inclusions. A real diamond is never perfect
A memory rises: Etienne was in a field east of the city with his brother. It was the summer when fireflies showed up in Saint-Malo, and their father was very excited, building long-handled nets for th...
A line comes back to Marie-Laure from Jules Verne: Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth. Etienne
A corner of the night sky, beyond a wall of trees, blooms red. In the lurid, flickering light, he sees that the airplane was not alone, that the sky teems with them, a dozen swooping back and forth, r...
A ciência, meu rapaz, é construída com erros, mas são erros úteis, porque levam, pouco a pouco, até à verdade.
A bondade, mais do que qualquer outra coisa, é o que perdura.