"Self-destruction for love is a particularly Durasian obsession. "You destroy me. You’re so good for me," repeats the woman in "Hiroshima Mon Amour" to her lover. I ask her today why sex and death are always entwined for her.
"It’s difficult to articulate. It’s erotic." She takes a deep breath. "I had a lover with whom I drank a lot of alcohol." She pauses, staring straight at me. Her face is expressionless, her dark eyes are absolutely still. "I’m acquainted with it, the desire to be killed. I know it exists.""
From an October 1991 NYTimes interview that remains an open tab on my computer, always.
You should read this.
“And this doubt grows around you. This doubt is alone, it is the doubt of solitude. It is born of it, of solitude. At least the word can be named. I think a lot of people couldn’t bear what I’m saying here; they would run away. Perhaps that’s why everyone isn’t a writer. Yes. That’s it. That’s the difference. That’s the truth. Nothing else. Doubt is writing. Thus, it is also the writer. And with the writer, everyone writes. We’ve always known that.”
Marguerite Duras (via batarde)
Marguerite would have been 100 today.
Marguerite Duras: ilmestierediscrivere.wordpress.com
photobooth photo of marguerite duras sometime in the 1930s. anyone have more information on this image? i’ve seen this clearer one before…
also better moment than ever to remind you of my photobooth tag.
hiroshima mon amour (renais, 1959)
A quick and frivolous return to French letters…
“I believe that always, or almost always, in all childhoods and in all the lives that follow them, the mother represents madness. Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we’ve ever met.” — Marguerite Duras
Marguerite Duras FOREVER.
i’m fanning myself right now. this is incredibly beautiful.
“I can’t really remember the days. The light of the sun blurred and annihilated all color. But the nights, I remember them. The blue was more distant than the sky, beyond all depths, covering the bounds of the world. The sky, for me, was the stretch of pure brilliance crossing the blue, that cold coalescence beyond all color… The light fell from the sky in cataracts of pure transparency, in torrents of silence and immobility. The air was blue, you could hold it in your hand. Blue. The sky was the continual throbbing of the brilliance of the light… Every night was different, each one had a name as long as it lasted.”
The Lover, Marguerite Duras (via phantomcelluloid)
Give or take a day, I finished this book one year ago in Paris, somewhere on the Left Bank.
i’m in the middle of reading this. i kind of wish i hadn’t seen the film already.
Marguerite Duras et sa mère, via Marguerite Duras - Biographie 3
i thought this photo was beautiful before i even knew who it was of! one of simon’s favourite writers.