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Citati iz knjige „The Secret Lives of People in Love“ autora Simon Van Booy

For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched.
She told me that love is when a person introduces you to yourself for the first time.
I wonder if Michel is a famous poet. My teacher at school told me that poets come from all walks of life and that their gift is God-given. I wonder if people will flock to Michel’s grave at Père-Lachaise Cemetery a hundred years from now. I wonder if they’ll leave their own poems at the foot of his tombstone and then talk to him and maybe thank him for his little birds, which sing to them in moments of darkness
Our apartment in the 11th is quite basic. All the windows open into a courtyard of other windows. With the lights out, I can see people’s lives unfold. A person’s life is a slow flash, and I watch my neighbors argue, make up, make love, and fry meat. I can tell that one of my neighbors is unhappy, because he sits by the telephone and sometimes picks it up to make sure he can hear a dial tone, but it never rings when he’s at home. Michel says his wife left him, and if there’s ever a time I can’t think of anyone to pray for, I should pray for him
When I was nine, Michel gave me the option of going into an orphanage but explained how he had grown up in one and they were not pleasant
He told me that his poems were not meant for me—that they were little flocks of birds intended to keep the other birds company. When I asked him who the poems were for, his eye pushed out a solitary tear that was rerouted by his scar
Sandrine sometimes buys me a book and leaves it with one of the other girls if she’s working. The last one she gave me was called The Man Who Planted Hope and Grew Happiness.
Even though I want to go to university and eventually buy Michel a red convertible, when I think of those Sundays in the Jardin des Plantes, I want to do things for people they will never forget. Maybe that’s the best I can do in life.
Sometimes small bolts of lightning shoot from the boats as tourists take pictures of one another, and sometimes they just aim the cameras at nothing in particular and shoot—I like these kinds of photographs best, not that I have a camera—but if I did, I would randomly take pictures of nothing in particular. How else could you record life as it happens
I suppose the key to a good life is to gently overlook the truth and hope that at any moment we can all be reborn.
She was not so much aware that she was dying as she was that she was still alive.
when I think of those Sundays in the Jardin des Plantes, I want to do things for people they will never forget. Maybe that’s the best I can do in life. It is cloudy, but flowers have burst open.
Sometimes I think my dreams are real memories and my life with Mina must be heaven. Maybe I am in heaven and don’t know it.
I would hear him praying to God on my behalf. He referred to me as peanut, so I’m not sure if God knew who he was talking about—but if there is a God, then he probably knows everything and that my real name is not peanut.
I suppose the key to a good life is to gently overlook the truth and hope that at any moment we can all be reborn
I suppose the key to a good life is to gently overlook the truth and hope that at any moment we can all be reborn.
This morning I woke up and was fifteen years old. Each year is like putting a new coat over all the old ones. Sometimes I reach into the pockets of my childhood and pull things out.
It is the afternoon of my birthday, but still the morning of my life. I
Michel says he looked like a powerful man, but so handsome that his strength played second fiddle.
Michel said that her long black hair curled about the edges of her face, as though it were too intimidated by her beauty to go near her features.
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