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?

One must talk. That's how it is. One must.

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.

Even so you have managed to live that love in the only way possible for you. Losing it before it happened.

The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.

I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

People come to Paris, to the capital, to give their lives a sense of belonging, of an almost mythical participation in society.