Bonjour Quotes

It amused me to think that one can tell the truth when one is drunk and nobody will believe it.

My love of pleasure seems to be the only consistent side of my character. Is it because I have not read enough?

I found myself both touched and irritated by the discovery that she was vulnerable.

A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of its complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.

He lifted me up and held me close against him, my head on his shoulder. At that moment I loved him. In the morning light he was as golden, as soft, as gentle as myself, and he would protect me.

For what are we looking for if not to please? I do not know if the desire to attract others comes from a superabundance of vitality, possessiveness, or the hidden, unspoken need to be reassured.

What you call types of mind are only mental ages.

La vie est vaine. Un peu d’amour, Un peu de haine, Et puis bonjour. La vie est brève. Un peu d’espoir, Un peu de rêve, Et puis bonsoir.

I did not find him absurd. I saw he was kind, that he was on the verge of real love. I thought it would be nice for me to be in love with him, too.

For this was the round of love: fear which leads on desire, tenderness and fury, and that brutal anguish which triumphantly follows pleasure.

Usually I avoided college students, whom I considered brutal, wrapped up in themselves, particularly in their youth, in which they found material for drama or an excuse for their own boredom. I did not care for young people.

Farewell Sadness Hello Sadness You are inscribed in the lines on the ceiling You are inscribed in the eyes that I love You are not poverty absolutely Since the poorest of lips denounce you Ah with a smile Bonjour Tristesse Love of kind bodies Power of love From which kindness rises Like a bodiless monster Unattached head Sadness beautiful face.

the only thing to do is simply continue is that simple yes, it is simple because it is the only thing to do can you do it yes, you can because it is the only thing to do

Your idea of love is rather primitive. It's not a series of sensations, independent of each other...It's something different... a sense of loss...

La liberté de penser, et de mal penser et de penser peu, la liberté de choisir moi-même ma vie, de me choisir moi-même. Je ne peux dire ˝d´être moi-même˝, puisque je n´étais rien qu´une pâte modelable, mais celle de refuser les moules.

He refused categorically all ideas of fidelity or serious commitments. He explained that they were arbitrary and sterile. From anyone else such views would have shocked me, but I knew that in his case they did not exclude tenderness and devotion - feelings which came all the more easily to him since he was determined that they should be transient.

Cynicism always enchanted me by producing a delicious feeling of self-assurance and of being in league with myself

[French] Parents see it as their job to bring the child around to appreciating this [food]. They believe that just as they must teach a child how to sleep, how to wait, and how to say bonjour, they must teach her how to eat.

… and surely we shall not continue to be unhappy we shall be happy but we shall continue to be ourselves everything continues to be possible

Adieu Tristesse Bonjour Tristesse Farewell Sadness Hello Sadness You are inscribed in the lines on the ceiling You are inscribed in the eyes that I love You are not poverty absolutely Since the poorest of lips denounce you Ah with a smile Bonjour Tristesse Love of kind bodies Power of love From which kindness rises Like a bodiless monster Unattached head Sadness beautiful face.

Bonjour mon Coeur, Hello my heart.” He is practically purring into the phone.

I saw an exquisite pink and blue shell on the sea-bottom. I dove for it, and held it, smooth and hollow in my hand all the morning. I decided it was a lucky charm, and that I would keep it. I am surprised that I have not lost it, for I lose everything. Today it is still pink and warm as it lies in my palm, and makes me feel like crying.

Joie de vivre is an attitude. It's a decision you make to live a life of joy. It's an invitation to this dance called life. All you have to do is leave the door slightly ajar and listen for the music.

Joie de vivre is about loving life, loving people, loving to be alive, feeling alive. It is about smiling, being in your heart, and being grateful for all the beautiful things in your life: being in good health, being able to hear, to see, to walk, being grateful for all the lovely and loving people...

...above else I was afraid of dullness, peace. To achieve our inner peace, my father and I needed an outer unrest

Je le regardai : je ne l'avais jamais aimé. Je l'avais trouvé bon et attirant; j'avais aimé le plaisir qu'il me donnait; mais je n'avais pas besoin de lui.

La vie est vaine, Un peu d’amour, Un peu de haine, Et puis—Bonjour! La vie est brève: Un peu d’espoir, Un peu de rève Et puis—Bon soir! Ah, brief is Life, Love’s short sweet way, With dreamings rife, And then—Good-day! And Life is vain— Hope’s vague delight, Grief’s transient pain, And then—Good-night.

Bet juk taip malonu paklusti savo impulsams, o paskui gailėtis...

Friheten att tänka, att tänka fel och tänka sällan, friheten att själv välja min livsform, att välja mig själv

I was going away, leaving behind me the villa, the garden and that summer.

It's funny how fate, by introducing herself, loves to choose unworthy and mediocre faces

Sans doûte, à son âge, je paierai aussi des jeunes gens pour m'aimer parce que l'amour est la chose la plus douce et la plus vivante, la plus raisonnable.

I was smoking a lot. I thought I was being decadent and I liked the idea.

Je serais intelligente, cultivée, un peu détachée, comme Anne.

Then I realized that I had attacked a living, sensitive creature, not just an entity.

Pour la première fois de ma vie, ce "moi" semblait se partager et la découverte d'une telle dualité m'étonnait prodigieusement.

An accurate accent is powerful because it is the ultimate gesture of empathy. It connects you to another person's culture in a way that words never can, because you have bent your body as well as your mind to match that person's culture. Anyone can learn "bawn-JURE" in a few seconds. To learn how bonjour fits your companion's mouth and tongue; to learn how to manipulate the muscles, the folds, and even the texture of your throat and lips to match your companion's -- this is an unmistakable, undeniable, and irresistable gesture of care.

This is the essence of French joie de vivre. It is a gesture. An experience. It is the fleeting moment in time that can never be repeated and must be appreciated now before it flies away, gone forever. It's about being present and alive to the ordinary moment. It's about friendship and the knowledge that nothing lasts forever. It is Zen. And for the Frenchwoman, I believe, it is the heart of happiness.

Time is money" This expression says so much about our culture. If time is money, then when we do something that does not involve getting paid, is it a waste of time? A waste of money?

Maybe I wanted to be crushed, too. To be ready you need to be tired, and you need to have seen a great deal, or what you consider to have been a great deal- we all have such different capacities, are able to absorb and sustain vastly different quantities of visions and pain- and at that moment I started thinking that I had seen enough, that in general I'd had my fill and that in terms of visual stimulation the week thus far has shown me enough and that I was sated. The rock-running in Senegal was enough, the kids and their bonjours- that alone would prepare me for the end; if I couldn't be thankful enough having been there I was sick and ungrateful, and I would not be ungrateful, not ever, I would always know the gifts given me, I would count them and keep them safe! I had had so much so I would be able to face the knife in the alley and accept it all, smiling serenely, thankful that I'd be taken while riding the very crest of everything. I had been on a plane! A tiny percentage of all those who'd ever lived would ever be on an airplane- and had seen Africa rushing at me like something alive and furious. I could be taken and eaten by these wet alleyways without protest.

...what are we looking or, if not to be liked? To this day I still don't know does that wish for conquest hide plenty of life strength, desire for power or secret, unconfirmed need to encourage and defend yourself.

Only, when I am in bed, at dawn, when all that can be heard in Paris is the sound of cars, my memory betrays me: summer, with everything I remember of it, comes flooding back. Anne, Anne! I repeat that name very softly to myself, over and over in the dark. Then something stirs within me with eyes closed, I greet by its name, sadness: Bonjour tristesse.

You could say that food is love. And to feel loved is to feel happy.

Happiness often comes in the most unlikely and unexpected situations, when we are not really looking for it.

Puis ce fut la ronde de l'amour: la peur qui donne la main au désir, la tendresse et la rage, et cette souffrance brutale qui suivait, triomphant, le plaisir.

De la désirer peu à peu plus que n'importe quoi, de la désirer du double désir que l'on porte à la chose interdite.

I am almost ashamed of it, whereas I had always looked upon sadness as being a worthy emotion.

Vous qui étiez si contente et si agitée, vous qui n'avez pas de tête, vous devenez cérébrale et triste.

But, more than anything, I feared boredom and repose. To be inwardly reposeful, my father and I needed to be outwardly in ferment.

Perhaps happiness is in the eyes of our loved ones and we only need to look, to put on some music, take their hand and dance. It's not something we can truly own. We certainly can't purchase it.

Many people have suggested that unhappines is not caused so much by lack, but by having so many choices it's impossible to focus on what we really want and what we need. Because of this inability to focus, we get confused and we are no longer able to see clearly who we are and what we are supposed to be doing in this world.

INT. PARISIAN CAFÉ—EVENING KAMA leaves the café. The feather points at him. NEWT lets it out and it flies to KAMA’S hat. JACOB: Is that the guy we’re looking for? NEWT: Yes. NEWT and JACOB jump up to confront him. NEWT (to KAMA): Er—bonjour. Bonjour, monsieur. KAMA makes to carry on walking, ignoring NEWT. NEWT: Oh wait, no, sorry. We were . . . we were actually just wondering if you’d come across a friend of ours? JACOB:Tina Goldstein. KAMA: Monsieur, Paris is a large city. NEWT: She’s an Auror. When Aurors go missing, the Ministry tend to come looking, so . . . No, now I suppose it would probably be better if we just report her absence— KAMA (deciding): She is tall? Dark? Rather— JACOB: —intense? NEWT: —beautiful— JACOB (hasty, off NEWT’S look): —Yeah, what I meant to say—she’s very—very pretty— NEWT: She’s intense too.

I lay full length on the sand, took up a handful and let it run through my fingers in soft yellow streams. I told myself that it ran out like time. It was an idle thought, and it was pleasant to have idle thoughts, for it was summer.

Truth be told, happiness is like the artist's muse. She is very whimsical and loves to play little tricks on us. If we search too hard, happiness will slip away. And then, when we are not really concentrating on capturing her, she will suddenly appear in our peripheral vision wearing a green silk gown, winking at us.

And actually, the word "happiness" translates as bonheur in French, which literally means "a good hour" or "good time". It's something you experience.

Oh, and we shopped! And since I was on a budget, I also did a lot of simple window shopping, or as the French say, le lèche-vitrines: "we licked the window".

Le soleil du matin me chauffait les cheveux, déplissait sur ma peau les marques du drap.

It was dawning on me that I was better suited to kissing a young man in the sunshine than to studying for a degree.

People get used to the faults of others when they don't believe it is their duty to correct them.

Mais il était tellement facile de suivre mes impulsions et de me repentir ensuite...

...impression is a pleasant feeling and enthralls like a military music. This shouldn't be my fault.

Et de plus, Cyril m'aimait ... cette pensée suffisait à mon euphorie.

De temps en temps, le souvenir du corps de Cyril, celui de certains instants, me vidait le coeur.

Pardon d’avoir du mourir.

Bonjour, the Embassy of France' 'Ah, bonjour, excuse me for asking but where is the French Coastguard?' 'At the coast. Guarding.

Commandant se rapprocha de Kara. Il lui fit un sourire tordu. « Bonjour, petit être. Quelle mignonne petite chose. »

We’re guessing the bonjour ritual is expanding because it underlines equality—a principle the French value much more than either liberty or fraternity.

Cette conception me séduisait : des amours rapides, violentes et passagères. Je n’étais pas à l’âge où la fidélité séduit. Je connaissais peu de chose de l’amour : des rendez-vous, des baisers et des lassitudes.

In the United States, a four-year-old American kid isn’t obliged to greet me when he walks into my house. He gets to skulk in under the umbrella of his parents’ greeting. And in an American context, that’s supposed to be fine with me. I don’t need the child’s acknowledgment because I don’t quite count him as a full person; he’s in a separate kids’ realm. I might hear all about how gifted he is, but he never actually speaks to me. When I’m at a family luncheon back in the United States, I’m struck that the cousins and stepcousins at the table, who range in age from five to fourteen, don’t say anything at all to me unless I pry it out of them. Some can only muster one-word responses to my questions. Even the teenagers aren’t used to expressing themselves with confidence to a grown-up they don’t know well. Part of what the French obsession with bonjour reveals is that, in France, kids don’t get to have this shadowy presence. The child greets, therefore he is. Just as any adult who walks into my house has to acknowledge me, any child who walks in must acknowledge me, too. “Greeting is essentially recognizing someone as a person,” says Benoît, the professor. “People feel injured if they’re not greeted by children that way.

I think joie de vivre as optimism about one's life and the ability to enjoy what you have without worrying too much about what you don't. Finding joy in the everyday isn't necessarily easy, but it helps a lot to share your life with someone you love.

I had to leave Paris the next morning. As always I would wonder why and start counting the days before I could go back. And then lose count and be lost again in the life that, by some strange twist of fate, I lived somewhere else. Au revoir Paris. Bonjour tristesse.

Bonjour, Monsieur Fraser. She inclined her veil gracefully, more to hide the broad smile on her face than in greeting, I thought. I see you have made the acquaintance of Bouton. Are you perhaps in search of your wife? This seeming to be my cue, I sidled out of the office door behind her. My devoted spouse glanced from Bouton to the office door, plainly drawing conclusions. And just how long have ye been standin' there,Sassenach? he asked dryly. Long enough, I said, with the smug self-assurance of one in Bouton's good books.

Tables of Contents Introduction Chapter 1 Bonjour, France! Chapter 2 Numbers and Gender Chapter 3 Plural Forms of Nouns Chapter 4 Pronouns Chapter 5 Verbs Chapter 6 Prepositions Chapter 7 Useful Expressions Preview Of‘Spanish For Beginners’ Check Out My Other Books Conclusion

Et tout d’un coup le souvenir m’est apparu. Ce goût, c’était celui du petit morceau de madeleine que le dimanche matin à Combray (parce que ce jour-là je ne sortais pas avant l’heure de la messe), quand j’allais lui dire bonjour dans sa chambre, ma tante Léonie m’offrait après l’avoir trempé dans son infusion de thé ou de tilleul. La vue de la petite madeleine ne m’avait rien rappelé avant que je n’y eusse goûté ; peut-être parce que, en ayant souvent aperçu depuis, sans en manger, sur les tablettes des pâtissiers, leur image avait quitté ces jours de Combray pour se lier à d’autres plus récents ; peut-être parce que, de ces souvenirs abandonnés si longtemps hors de la mémoire, rien ne survivait, tout s’était désagrégé ; les formes — et celle aussi du petit coquillage de pâtisserie, si grassement sensuel sous son plissage sévère et dévot — s’étaient abolies, ou, ensommeillées, avaient perdu la force d’expansion qui leur eût permis de rejoindre la conscience. Mais, quand d’un passé ancien rien ne subsiste, après la mort des êtres, après la destruction des choses, seules, plus frêles mais plus vivaces, plus immatérielles, plus persistantes, plus fidèles, l’odeur et la saveur restent encore longtemps, comme des âmes, à se rappeler, à attendre, à espérer, sur la ruine de tout le reste, à porter sans fléchir, sur leur gouttelette presque impalpable, l’édifice immense du souvenir.

I thought of Madame Webb lying awake at night. No doubt at her age I would also have to pay someone to love me, because love is the most wonderful thing in the world. What does the price matter? The important thing was not to become embittered and jealous, as she was of Elsa and Anne.

Il fallait absolument se secouer, retrouver mon père et notre vie d'antan. De quels charmes ne se paraient pas pour moi subitement les deux années joyeuses et incohérentes que je venais d'achever, ces deux années que j'avais si vite reniées l'autre jour ?... La liberté de penser, et de mal penser et de penser peu, la liberté de choisir moi-même ma vie. Je ne peux dire "d'être moi-même" puisque je n'étais rien qu'une pâte modelable, mais celle de refuser les moules.

With all our success and expensive vacations, our big houses and bigger mortgages and our brand-new cars - have we become so satiated that we're really a little miserable, feeling a little let down by the pursuit of material goods? And have we forgotten how to find simple, old-fashioned, down-to-earth happiness?

Treated without respect, food can be dangerous stuff. It can nourish you and at the same time, it can destroy you.

Seuls les poissons morts suivent le courant' - Only dead fish follow the current

Inherent in the French concept of happinness is the knowledge that time is limited and joy is fleeting. It's a moment, never to be repeated.

That's the nice thing about struggling with weight - it often forces you to be creative and to appreciate scarves, hats, boots & bijoux.

(Armand was just dumbfounded by the almost universal habit in U.S. academic circles of signing exchanges with “Best.” “Who is best?” he asked us. “Why are they best?”)

Le diable entre chez un avocat et lui dit : « Bonjour, je suis le diable. J’ai un marché à vous proposer. — Je vous écoute. — Je vais faire de vous l’avocat le plus riche du monde. En échange, vous me donnez votre âme, l’âme de vos parents, celle de vos enfants et celle de vos cinq meilleurs amis ? » L’avocat le regarde d’un air étonné et dit : « D’accord. Où est le piège ? »

in North America, giving your name and talking about your personal life is something you do in public and it doesn’t mean anything. In France, name exchanges amount to something of a commitment.

In America, we are entitled to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." There is no such expression in France. In fact, in France, the equivalent expression is la recherche du bonheur (looking for happiness). On the surface, this might seem as if I am splitting hairs, but if you really examine the idea of "looking" for happiness as opposed to "pursuing" happiness, you'll see there's actually a big difference. If we're looking for something, it feels as if it's there hiding in plain sight. And all we have to do is be patient and when the room is quiet, quickly lift up the tablecloth and voilà! There it is! Happiness! On the other hand, pursuing implies a kind of chasing after something. "Looking for happiness" seems gentler. There is happiness and we just need to look.

My mother never stopped cooking. She never stopped nourishing me. On Sundays, her face would disappear into steam from simmering carrots, celery, and onions, as she prepped our soup for the week. Her food processor held a prominent spot on the kitchen counter, mixing homemade sauces. The kitchen always smelled of tahini. She showed me, leading by example, that real food is the right food. It is the only food.

Ladies, bonjour. My name’s Madame Fi-Fi.” Her French accent was thick, and I could hardly understand a word she was saying. “Welcome to the Gay Paris.” We both sniggered under our breaths, immature I know; Madame Fi-Fi gave us a stern look. “You are the new dancers?” she asked, sounding pretty disappointed. “You looked taller in your pictures” “Erm…” Fran smiled. “We were wearing high heels.” Fran got on her tiptoes and fell over and knocked over a coatrack. Great first impressions.

I was glad the Bonjour, M. Gauguin sides showed above the slats, and I hoped that everyone the truck passed would enjoy it. As the truck drove off, the flesh flies came alive in the Saplena Street sun, swarms of blue, green, and gold flesh slies that were certainly entitled to be locked up with Paul Gauguin's Bonjour, M. Gauguin, in large crates and doused with acids and alkalis in paper mills, because those wild flies refuse to give up the idea that life is at its most beautiful in gloriously rancid, decomposing blood.

Jusqu'à présent, lecteur, suivant l'antique usage, Je te disais bonjour à la première page. Mon livre, cette fois, se ferme moins gaiement ; En vérité, ce siècle est un mauvais moment. Tout s'en va, les plaisirs et les moeurs d'un autre âge, Les rois, les dieux vaincus, le hasard triomphant, Rosafinde et Suzon qui me trouvent trop sage, Lamartine vieilli qui me traite en enfant. La politique, hélas ! voilà notre misère. Mes meilleurs ennemis me conseillent d'en faire. Être rouge ce soir, blanc demain, ma foi, non. Je veux, quand on m'a lu, qu'on puisse me relire. Si deux noms, par hasard, s'embrouillent sur ma lyre, Ce ne sera jamais que Ninette ou Ninon.

Then I remembered how my Weight Watchers leader told us to 'walk the circumference of the supermarket', meaning to avoid the aisles in the middle that held the most dangerous foods: the processed foods, the foods full of sugary and fatty goodness. She told us to stick to the outside - the dairy, meat, fish, and produces aisles. So I did.

My father and Paul would be outside, talking about boats or motors or forest fires or one of their expeditions, and my mother and Madame would be inside in the rocking chairs (my mother with the Niagara Falls cushion), trying with great goodwill to make conversation. Neither knew more than five words of the other’s language and after the opening Bonjours both would unconsciously raise their voices as though talking to a deaf person. “Il fait beau,” my mother would shout, no matter what the weather was like, and Madame would grin with strain and say “Pardon? Ah, il fait beau, oui, il fait beau, ban oui.” When she had ground to a stop both would think desperately, chairs rocking.

Cockroaches are survivors. Turn on the lights and you will see a scattering of casino hosts in three thousand dollar bespoken suits, corporate fruit flies in empty suits, lawyer-class slime on their way to the courthouse to go shopping for other people's money, bankers shilling bad loans by bundling them together with good ones and sending them down the financial pipeline knowing that they stand protected by the political scum from every level of government who have risen to breathtaking heights of mediocrity, tossing a couple of bucks from the public till to the obedient myrmidons in exchange for their votes. While decaying empire crumble, cockroaches multiply among the ruins. - Bonjour Amigos

Il arrive un âge où ils ne sont plus séduisants, ni «en forme», comme on dit. Ils ne peuvent plus boire et ils pensent encore aux femmes; seulement ils sont obligés de les payer, d'accepter des quantités de petites compromissions pour échapper à leur solitude. Ils sont bernés, malheureux. C'est ce moment qu'ils choisissent pour devenir sentimentaux et exigeants… J'en ai vu beaucoup devenir ainsi des sortes d'épaves. "A time comes when they are no longer attractive or in good form. They can't drink any more, and they still hanker after women, only then they have to pay and make compromises in order to escape from their loneliness: they have become just figures of fun. They grow sentimental and hard to please. I have seen many who have gone the same way.

On a Parisienne’s Bookshelf THERE ARE MANY BOOKS ON A PARISIENNE’S BOOKSHELF: The books you so often claim you’ve read that you actually believe you have. The books you read in school from which you remember only the main character’s name. The art books your parents give you each Christmas so you can get some “culture”. The art books that you bought yourself and which you really love. The books that you’ve been promising yourself you’ll read next summer … for the past ten years. The books you bought only because you liked the title. The books that you think makes you cool. The books you read over and over again, and that evolve along with your life. The books that remind you of someone you loved. The books you keep for your children, just in case you ever have any. The books whose first ten pages you’ve read so many times you know them by heart. The books you own simply because you must and, taken together, form intangible proof that you are well read. AND THEN THERE ARE THE BOOKS YOU HAVE READ, LOVED, AND WHICH ARE A PART OF YOUR IDENTITY: The Stranger, Albert Camus The Elementary Particles, Michel Houellebecq Belle du Seigneur, Albert Cohen Bonjour Tristesse, Françoise Sagan Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert L'Écume des jours, Boris Vian Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire Journey to the End of the Night, Louis-Ferdinand Céline À la recherche du temps perdu, Marcel Proust “How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are: Love, Style, and Bad Habits” By Anne Berest, Audrey Diwan, Caroline de Maigret, and Sophie Mas

Upon returning home, I asked a Parisian friend who lives near me how she does it. How does she manage to adjust to our grocery stores and our food when she comes back from Paris? I was having a heck of a time with it. She shook her head sympathetically and said, “I remember one time I came back to the States. I went to the grocery store. I stood in the aisles. And I cried. I literally cried.

The pressure is on. They've teased me all week, because I've avoided anything that requires ordering. I've made excuses (I'm allergic to beef," "Nothing tastes better than bread," Ravioli is overrated"), but I can't avoid it forever.Monsieur Boutin is working the counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath. "Bonjour, uh...soup? Sopa? S'il vous plait?" "Hello" and "please." I've learned the polite words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash, I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It's early September, and the weather is still warm. When does fall come to Paris? "Ah! soupe.I mean,oui. Oui!" My cheeks burn. "And,um, the uh-chicken-salad-green-bean thingy?" Monsieur Boutin laughs. It's a jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly, Santa Claus laugh. "Chicken and haricots verts, oui. You know,you may speek Ingleesh to me. I understand eet vairy well." My blush deepends. Of course he'd speak English in an American school. And I've been living on stupid pears and baquettes for five days. He hands me a bowl of soup and a small plate of chicken salad, and my stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food. "Merci," I say. "De rien.You're welcome. And I 'ope you don't skeep meals to avoid me anymore!" He places his hand on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can- "NOW THAT WASN'T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT, ANNA?" St. Clair hollers from the other side of the cafeteria. I spin around and give him the finger down low, hoping Monsieur Boutin can't see. St. Clair responds by grinning and giving me the British version, the V-sign with his first two fingers. Monsieur Boutin tuts behind me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the seat next to St. Clair. "Thanks. I forgot how to flip off the English. I'll use the correct hand gesture next time." "My pleasure. Always happy to educate." He's wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a ratty T-shirt with Napolean's silhouette on it.When I asked him about it,he said Napolean was his hero. "Not because he was a decent bloke, mind you.He was an arse. But he was a short arse,like meself." I wonder if he slept at Ellie's. That's probably why he hasn't changed his clothes. He rides the metro to her college every night, and they hang out there. Rashmi and Mer have been worked up, like maybe Ellie thinks she's too good for them now. "You know,Anna," Rashmi says, "most Parisians understand English. You don't have to be so shy." Yeah.Thanks for pointing that out now.

Si vous voulez vous refermer, il faut arrêter d’accepter de vous ouvrir à contre-cœur. *** Je veux rester là. Je veux être un château dans le sable. Je veux être le sable. Les mouettes. La mer. Les vagues. Je veux être une vague qui court sur la plage. Ou alors la plage, et attendre la délicatesse des vagues qui viennent me caresser doucement. *** - Tu es têtue ! - Pragmatique… - Fière ! - Réaliste… - Obstinée ! - Déterminée… - O.K. J’abandonne. *** Un proverbe arabe dit 'ne baisse pas les bras, tu risquerais de le faire deux secondes avant le miracle. *** On devient fou quand on regarde en face ce genre de vérité. Il vaut mieux occulter ce qui est trop dur, ne pas y penser, mettre le quotidien au premier plan, vivre les choses sans penser aux conséquences, se nourrir des souvenirs pour ne pas subir le présent, et encore moins ce qui risque d’avenir. *** Quand on vie un grand malheur dans sa vie, on a l’impression que le regard des autres ne nous autorise pas à être joyeux, alors que tout au fond de soi, on sent que c’est cela qui permet de se maintenir en vie. Un proverbe japonais dit « Le bonheur va vers ceux qui savent rire » *** On ne se trompe jamais quand on aime. *** Romain est une de ces rares personnes qui, après avoir dit bonjour, demandent comment ҫa va avec un réel intérêt pour la réponse. On sent dans son regard et dans son attente qu’il est sincèrement à l’écoute des autres.

And for the four remaining days - the ninety-six remaining hours - we mapped out a future away from everything we knew. When the walls of the map were breached, we gave one another courage to build them again. And we imagined our home an old stone barn filled with junk and wine and paintings, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and bees. I remember our final day in the villa. We were supposed to be going that evening, taking the sleeper back to England. I was on edge, a mix of nerves and excitement, looking out to see if he made the slightest move toward leaving, but he didn’t. Toiletries remained on the bathroom shelves, clothes stayed scattered across the floor. We went to the beach as usual, lay side by side in our usual spot. The heat was intense and we said little, certainly nothing of our plans to move up to Provence, to the lavender and light. To the fields of sunflowers. I looked at my watch. We were almost there. It was happening. I kept saying to myself, he’s going to do it. I left him on the bed dozing, and went out to the shop to get water and peaches. I walked the streets as if they were my new home. Bonjour to everyone, me walking barefoot, oh so confident, free. And I imagined how we’d go out later to eat, and we’d celebrate at our bar. And I’d phone Mabel and Mabel would say, I understand. I raced back to the villa, ran up the stairs and died. Our rucksacks were open on the bed, our shoes already packed away inside. I watched him from the door. He was silent, his eyes red. He folded his clothes meticulously, dirty washing in separate bags. I wanted to howl. I wanted to put my arms around him, hold him there until the train had left the station. I’ve got peaches and water for the journey, I said. Thank you, he said. You think of everything. Because I love you, I said. He didn’t look at me. The change was happening too quickly. Is there a taxi coming? My voice was weak, breaking. Madame Cournier’s taking us. I went to open the window, the scent of tuberose strong. I lit a cigarette and looked at the sky. An airplane cast out a vivid orange wake that ripped across the violet wash. And I remember thinking, how cruel it was that our plans were out there somewhere. Another version of our future, out there somewhere, in perpetual orbit. The bottle of pastis? he said. I smiled at him. You take it, I said. We lay in our bunks as the sleeper rattled north and retraced the journey of ten days before. The cabin was dark, an occasional light from the corridor bled under the door. The room was hot and airless, smelled of sweat. In the darkness, he dropped his hand down to me and waited. I couldn’t help myself, I reached up and held it. Noticed my fingertips were numb. We’ll be OK, I remember thinking. Whatever we are, we’ll be OK. We didn’t see each other for a while back in Oxford. We both suffered, I know we did, but differently. And sometimes, when the day loomed gray, I’d sit at my desk and remember the heat of that summer. I’d remember the smells of tuberose that were carried by the wind, and the smell of octopus cooking on the stinking griddles. I’d remember the sound of our laughter and the sound of a doughnut seller, and I’d remember the red canvas shoes I lost in the sea, and the taste of pastis and the taste of his skin, and a sky so blue it would defy anything else to be blue again. And I’d remember my love for a man that almost made everything possible./

2/ KICK YOUR OWN ASS, GENTLY. I’ve been trying to set a few modest goals, both daily and weekly. In the course of a day, it’s good to get some stupid things accomplished, and off your “list.” I guess because it leaves you feeling that you and the “rest of the world” still have something to do with each other! Like today, for example, I can think back on sending a fax to my brother on his birthday, leaving a phone message for Brutus at his “hotel” on his birthday, phoning my Dad on his birthday (yep, all on the same day), then driving to Morin Heights to the ATM machine, to St. Sauveur for grocery shopping, and planning all that so I’d still have enough daylight left to go snowshoeing in the woods. And then I could drink. Not a high-pressure day, and hardly earth-shaking activities, but I laid them out for myself and did them (even though tempted to “not bother” with each of them at one point or another). I gave myself a gentle kick in the ass when necessary, or cursed myself out for a lazy fool, and because of all that, I consider today a satisfactory day. Everything that needed to be done got done. And by “needs” I certainly include taking my little baby soul out for a ride. And drinking. And there are little side benefits from such activities, like when the cashier in the grocery store wished me a genuinely-pleasant “Bonjour,” and I forced myself to look at her and return the greeting. The world still seems unreal to me, but I try not to purposely avoid contact with pleasant strangers. It wouldn’t be polite! Another “little goal” for me right now is spending an hour or two at the desk every morning, writing a letter or a fax to someone like you, or Brutus, or Danny, who I want to reach out to, or conversely, to someone I’ve been out of touch with for a long while, maybe for a year-and-a-half or two years. These are friends that I’ve decided I still value, and that I want as part of my “new life,” whatever it may be. It doesn’t really matter what, but just so you can say that you changed something in the course of your day: a neglected friend is no longer neglected; an errand that ought to be dealt with has been dealt with.

Adolf Basler bio je jedan od onih pariskih trgovaca koje tamo zovu “trgovci kod kuće”, jer trguju slikama a nemaju galeriju. Bio je ludo zaljubljen u Derena. Jednog zimskog popodneva, dok sam sedeo na terasi “Café des deux Magots”, a to je izvikana kafana intelektualaca sa leve obale, prisustvovao sam neobičnom i zabavnom prizoru : odnekuda je, sam, kao po običaju, naišao Deren i seo za sto na spoljnoj terasi. Zimsku terasu zagrevale su jake grejalice, a sa strane štitili veliki stakleni paravani. Čim je seo, Deren je naručio demi, kriglu piva, zatim je od arapskog prodavca u prolazu kupio grickalice koje zovu cacahuetes (kikiriki) i njima napunio džepove. Dok je natenane grickao kikiriki i pijuckao pivo, sedeo je nepomično, uopšte se nije osvrtao, a na licu je imao izraz čoveka koji se iz dna duše gadi svakoga i svačega. Slonovskim okom zurio je preko puta u portal crkve Saint Germain des Pres. Utom, kao da su ga vile donele ili po tajanstvenom pozivu, na vidiku se pojavio Adolf Basler. Pošto je izdaleka prepoznao Derena, prišao je i počeo da šetka, topeći se od miline gledao je slikara užagrenim očima, a rukama i glavom upućivao mu diskretne pozdrave. Ukrućen, nepomičan i ravnodušan, Deren je nastavio da gleda u portal crkve. Pošto su svi stolovi oko Derena bili zauzeti, Basleru je preostalo da šetkajući pričeka. Međutim, levo od Derena, gosti su ustali i oslobodili jedan sto. Basler je kao bez duše jurnuo da ga zauzme. Ali pre nego što će sesti, sa uvažavanjem je upitao Derena da li je slobodno, kao da on sedi za oba stola. Pošto slikar nije ni beknuo, Basler je bojažljivo krajičkom zadnjice seo na ivicu stolice. Onda je započela još jedna ujudurma : Basler je pokušao da se upusti u razgovor sa Derenom. “Bonjour, monsieur Derain, vous allez bien ?” (“Dobar dan, gospodine Deren, kako ste?”) Onaj ćuti kao zaliven. “Da li sada mnogo radite, gospodine Deren ?” A onaj drugi ni da obeli zuba ! Tada Basler, na vrhuncu ljubavnog ushićenja,pruža drhtavu ruku i vrhom prsta dotiče Derenovo rame. Kako se usuđuješ ! Snažno brundanje, čak nešto poput rike razjarenog slona i ne manje snažno otresanje Derenovog ramena koga je dotakla ruka sirotog Baslera, bili su jedini odgovor na onaj bojažljivi pokušaj nežnosti. Basler je odmah povukao ruku kao da se opario, a onda je, onako poražen i očajan, odustao od sveg, tužno izvukao iz džepa primerak – više se ne sećam čega – Gringoire ili Les nouvelles litteraires i zaronio u čitanje jedne od onih beskonačnih uspavanki kojima obiluju pariski književni nedeljnici.