The best way to fill time is to waste it.— Marguerite Duras
The most unbelievable Marguerite Duras quotes that will activate your desire to change
Alcohol doesn't console, it doesn't fill up anyone's psychological gaps, all it replaces is the lack of God.
That she had so completely recovered her sanity was a source of sadness to her.
One should never be cured of one's passion.
A book consists of two layers: on top, the readable layer .
.. and underneath, a layer that was inaccessible. You only sense its existence in a moment of distraction from the literal reading, the way you see childhood through a child. It would take forever to tell what you see, and it would be pointless.
The best way to fill time is to waste it.
I know it's not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction of costliness of their finery. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don't know where. I only know it isn't where women think.
You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.
In love there are no vacations. No such thing. Love has to be lived fully with its boredom and all that.
The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.
Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.
Alcohol doesn't console, it doesn't fill up anyone's psychological gaps, all it replaces is the lack of God. It doesn't comfort man. On the contrary, it encourages him in his folly, it transports him to the supreme regions where he is master of his own destiny.
It was the men I deceived the most that I loved the most.
We’re in the vanguard of a nameless battle, a battle without arms or bloodshed or glory: we’re in the vanguard of waiting.
I seldom read on beaches or in gardens.
You can't read by two lights at once, the light of day and the light of the book. You should read by electric light, the room in shadow, and only the page lit up.
Heterosexuality is dangerous. It tempts you to aim at a perfect duality of desire.
Get rid of things or you'll spend your whole life tidying up.
I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word.
Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.
Alcohol is barren. The words a man speaks in the night of drunkenness fade like the darkness itself at the coming of day.
Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.
I'm still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I've never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door.
It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.
She had lived her early years as though she were waiting for something she might, but never did, become.
The thing that's between us is fascination, and the fascination resides in our being alike. Whether you're a man or a woman, the fascination resides in finding out that we're alike.
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.
Drinking isn't necessarily the same as wanting to die.
But you can't drink without thinking you're killing yourself.
No other human being, no woman, no poem or music, book or painting can replace alcohol in its power to give man the illusion of real creation.
What stops you killing yourself when you're intoxicated out of your mind is the thought that once you're dead you won't be able to drink any more.
Paradoxically, the freedom of Paris is associated with a persistent belief that nothing ever changes. Paris, they say, is the city that changes least. After an absence of twenty or thirty years, one still recognizes it.
I suddenly remember something I've been told about fear.
That amid a hail of machine gun fire you notice the existence of your skin.
When a woman drinks it's as if an animal were drinking, or a child.
Alcoholism is scandalous in a woman, and a female alcoholic is rare, a serious matter. It's a slur on the divine in our nature.
Fidelity, enforced and unto death, is the price you pay for the kind of love you never want to give up, for someone you want to hold forever, tighter and tighter, whether he's close or far away, someone who becomes dearer to you the more you've sacrificed for his sake.
For that's what a woman, a mother wants -- to teach her children to take an interest in life. She knows it's safer for them to be interested in other people's happiness than to believe in their own.
I don't have general views about anything, except social injustice.
The house a woman creates is a Utopia.
She can't help it -- can't help trying to interest her nearest and dearest not in happiness itself but in the search for it.
Acting doesn't bring anything to a text. On the contrary, it detracts from it.
To love one child and to love all children, whether living or dead --somewhere these two loves come together. To love a no-good but humble punk and to love an honest man who believes himself to be an honest man --somewhere these, too, come together.
Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.
It's only women who are not really quite women at all, frivolous women who have no idea, who neglect repairs.
A house means a family house, a place specially meant for putting children and men in so as to restrict their waywardness and distract them from the longing for adventure and escape they've had since time began.
A woman's work, from the time she gets up to the time she goes to bed, is as hard as a day at war, worse than a man's working day. ... To men, women's work was like the rain-bringing clouds, or the rain itself. The task involved was carried out every day as regularly as sleep. So men were happy - men in the Middle Ages, men at the time of the Revolution, and men in 1986: everything in the garden was lovely.
In heterosexual love there's no solution.
Man and woman are irreconcilable, and it's the doomed attempt to do the impossible, repeated in each new affair, that lends heterosexual love its grandeur.
Banality is sometimes striking.
Suddenly, all at once, she knows, knows that he doesn't understand her, that he never will, that he lacks the power to understand such perverseness. And that he can never move fast enough to catch her.
Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before nothing. Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome.
All that remains of that minute is time in all its purity, bone-white time.
When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.
Madness is like intelligence, you know.
You can't explain it. Just like intelligence. It comes on you, it fills you, and then you understand it. But when it goes away you can't understand it at all any longer.
A prolonged silence ensues. The reason for the silence is our growing interest one for the other. No one is aware of it, no one yet; no one? am I quite sure?
You are what you are and that fascinates me.
I've forgotten the words with which to tell you.
I knew them once, but I've forgotten them, and now I'm talking to you without them.
The outrage was on the scale of God. My younger brother was immortal and they hadn't noticed. Immortality had been concealed in my brother's body while he was alive, and we hadn't noticed that it dwelt there. Now my brother's body was dead, and immortality with it. ... And the error, the outrage, filled the whole universe.