Anthony Doerr Quotes

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.

About Author

Anthony Doerr is an American author of novels and short stories. He gained widespread recognition for his 2014 novel All the Light We Cannot See, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.

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.

Do we choose who we love?

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...

Entropy is the degree of randomness or disorder in a system, Doctor. His eyes fix on Werner’s for a heartbeat, a glance both warm and chilling. Disorder. You hear the commandant say it. You hear your...

Então, crianças, como o cérebro, que vive sem uma centelha de luz, constrói para nós um mundo cheio de luz?

For a split second, the space around Werner tears in half, as though the last molecules of oxygen have been ripped out of it. Then shards of stone and wood and metal streak past, ringing against his h...

He knows the transmitter must be high in the house. Close to the shelling. He says, I saved her only to hear her die.

It’s like cold silk. Cold, sumptuous silk onto which the sea has laid offerings: pebbles, shells, barnacles. Tiny slips of wrack. Her fingers dig and reach; the drops of rain touch the back of her nec...

Learning happens on backless benches, at wooden tables grooved by the boredom of countless boys before them -- squires, monks, conscripts, cadets.