When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.
Marguerite DurasAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist, Writer, Regisseur
- Nationality: french
- Born: April 4, 1914
- Died: March 3, 1996
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I'm a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising. Money's new-minted in this fat purse. I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf. I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.
Sylvia Plath