Ils sont là, bien rangés sur l’étagère de la chambre jaune. Il y en a de toutes les tailles, des petites des grands et longs, des feuillus et des tout minces et de toutes les couleurs, des rouges, des bleus, des verts ou des jaunes, foisonnant de dessins colorés ou remplis de texte noir écrit serré. Hippolyte les aime tous, particulièrement depuis quelques mois, depuis qu’il sait lire, tout seul.
Read MoreMia decided to give birth in the inaccessible remote corner of the entrance cupboard. In the middle of Margot's most expensive shoes. Pierre and Margot had prepared a comfortable place in a warm corner of the kitchen with a stack of old woolen jumpers in a basket. Mia even seemed to like it and sniffed around the basket for a couple of days.
Read More-"Clare, we all die one day" Leon would say.
She found him particularly annoying in those moments. As if nothing mattered.
Since Alex was born, she could sense the shadows. At night they would come in the form of terrible stories; Alex would die in his sleep, swallow one of his toys, fall from his bike, be knidnapped whilts she was asleep. They were millions of stories, like dark birds flying towards her, keeping her awake and terrified.
Read MoreFor a long time, you thought the walls were rigid. Hard concrete. Grey. With some yellow patches. Covered with scratches and inscriptions. Some that only a really tall man would reach. Some men are giants you thought when you first entered your new home. Then you realised that they were probably standing on the narrow stool. The men before you. Some writings in languages you do not know. The fact that there are so many languages you do not know gives you comfort. You are well learned and well-travelled. But there is a big world out there. Outside those six walls.
Read MoreA distant memory. One that could never be forgotten. She was dressed in thin garments on a frozen winter morning. The sky was of an abnormal depth, even for such menacing times. Clouds of fog moved towards her, enveloping her frail ankles in their icy wrath.
Read MoreShe tilted the jug of pink lemonade and the ice cubes tumbled into her glass, three at a time, clinking together. He was at the other side of the room, slumped in a sofa, a cup of steaming coffee in his trembling fingers. Miriam wanted to say something, anything, but as her mouth opened, a single breath came whooshing out before she clamped it shut, her teeth grinding, hard. All this was giving her a headache and so she sat down, dizzy and flustered.
Read MoreHave you ever pushed the door of a store, driven by the nearly magnetic attraction of a name or visual on the front window? I have, many times, often to be disappointed by what I discovered once inside.
There was this one time though were I entered a small narrow shop called Serendipity in a sleepy village in Cornwall where I had rented a B&B.
Read MoreDear you, whoever you are,
I found this sturdy leaf and pulled out my purple fountain pen from the back pocket of my soaked denim skirt, and decided to write this letter hoping you would find it.
When I was washed onto the white sand of this island, I befriended a seagull. She was gentle and kind and approached me when she heard the sound of my voice. Now, I have decided to let her go with this letter attached to her leg. She will return and when she does, I will know that she has found you.
It all started with a misunderstanding. Zara agreed to meet me at the bottom of the stairs of the Paris Opera, and I waited for 30 minutes at the bottom of the stairs of the Paris Opera.
Except that my sister Zara meant the old Paris Opera and I understood the new Paris Opera, also called the Opera Bastille. Technically I was right of course. The old Opera house has been converted into the home of the national ballet and replaced by the new Opera...
Read MoreThis time, a Moroccan taxi driver picked me up at the airport. He was having strange conversations on the phone mixing English, Arabic peppered with some colourful French words. He specifically fancied "deguelasse" to qualify all things related to American politics and the price of housing in San Francisco.
Read MoreJason whipped around, the crackling hum of wind made him fear something. It must've been death in general, or maybe just the idea of it. The sun was long gone, and the sliver of a pale orange moon was glassed over with blue dust, liquid moonbeams easing through the burning cracks of the sky. His little brother, Oliver was just seven years old, and clutching on to Jason's arm as if though his life depended on it. And maybe, just maybe, it did. Rosie, the hyperactive dog, was slouched over, hunched into a skinny ball of fur. They were late, and they didn't quite know why.
Read MoreI've been sitting on the top of the stairs in my building for approximately three and a half hours. Sometimes I feel like it's the only place in the whole of the universe where I can reflect on things. Reflect, not think. Because I can think almost anywhere, whether it be about the colour of the stain on my new shirt, or the controversial theories regarding evolution, I know how to think.
Read MoreHe was lucid but the expression on his face was thick with blankness. Or maybe it could've been a deep, trifling concentration, a rare investment, If one was to capture it in a photograph of language, it would translate such: eyes slightly narrowed, brows furrowed, the line between them deep and important.
Read MoreClara sortit son carnet bleu et nota : « cet homme assis à ma gauche se moque -t’il de moi ? » Elle noircit son carnet de plusieurs points d’interrogation avant de reposer son crayon. Elle fit glisser son regard vers la table en terrasse où l’inconnu lisait, paisiblement. « Soleil couchant », Faulkner, éditions Folio, le livre qu’elle venait d’achever, l’avant-veille, assise exactement à la même table de café, place Gambetta.
Read MoreUn matin de septembre, le Canada m’est apparu comme la destination de mon voyage. Bill, mon patron, m’a encouragé à prendre « le temps qu’il faudrait ». Mes collègues de bureau sont venus me serrer la main en silence.
Read MoreOne September morning, it occurred to me that Canada was the place where I really wanted to go. My boss Bill told me to take “as much time off as needed”. One by one, my colleagues came to say a silent good-bye.
Read MoreDearest Judith,
I know you may not read this letter for fear that I am writing to shower you with bitter accusations. I assure you that I simply could not hold a grudge against you for much longer, as justified as my anger may be.