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...
At night
At the crest of a low hill, her father looks over his shoulder: vehicles are backed up as far as he can see, carryalls and vans, a sleek new cloth-top wraparound V-12
Audubon,
Between whatever has happened already and whatever is to come hovers an invisible borderland, the known on one side and the unknown on the other.
Box 1 Auckland,
Breitenau. The first policeman
But he didn’t have language for what he really wanted to say; he couldn’t explain how her wildness that day, on the road, had thrilled him as much as it terrified him.
But what Marie-Laure remembered, standing at the rail as it whistled past, was her father saying that Foucault's pendulum would never stop. It would keep swinging, she understood, after she and her fa...
Can deaf people hear their heartbeat, Frau Elena? Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle, Frau Elena?
Can deaf people hear their heartbeat?
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,
Deep in Madame's voice, Marie-Laure hears water: atolls and archipelagos and lagoons and fjords.
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.
Don't tell lies. Lie to yourself, Werner, but don't lie to me.
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....
Don’t you ever get tired of believing? Don’t you ever want proof?You must never stop believing. That’s the most important thing.
Each time he returned, he looked slightly different, not merely older, but changed: a new accent, the cigarettes, three sharp knocks on the door. It was as if the city was entering his body and remaki...
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