Boileau-Narcejac > Quotes

“Quand il mangeait des babas ou des éclairs, il se sentait coupable jusqu'à l'âme, à cause de la guerre, à cause des vendeuses dont les maris ou les amants se trouvaient sans doute quelque part, entre la mer du Nord et les Vosges. Mais il comprenait que Madeleine avait besoin de cette nourriture, justement pour tenir en échec ce vide, ce néant, cette nuit où elle était toujours sur le point de sombrer.”
― Boileau-Narcejac, Sueurs Froides

“Perdonami... Piccola Euridice!"
(...)

Poteva pure guardarla a vista vita natural durante, non avrebbe mai avuto accesso a quello che si nascondeva nelle pieghe della sua memoria. La vera Madeleine era libera, viveva altrove. Gli concedeva quella parvenza di se stessa solo per un atto di carità. Prima o poi, inevitabilmente, sarebbe arrivato il giorno della separazione. Il loro amore era aberrante. Era votato alla morte... Alla morte!”
― Boileau - Narcejac

“Ravinel was used to driving at night. He preferred it, for he liked being alone and liked it all the more when tearing through the darkness at top speed. At night there was no need to slow down even at a village. The headlights lit up the road fantastically, making it seem like a canal stirred by a slight swell. Sometimes he could almost imagine he was in a speedboat. Then suddenly it would be like shooting down the slope of a switchback: the white posts bordering the road at the turnings would sweep giddily past, their reflectors glittering like precious stones. It was as if you yourself were conjuring up with a touch of your magic wand this unearthly fairy world, round which was a dim, shadowy void with no horizon. You dream. You leave your earthly flesh behind., to become an astral body gliding through a sleeping universe. Fields, streets, churches, stations. Created on the moment out of nothing and then swept away into nothingness again. A touch of the accelerator is sufficient to destroy them. Perhaps they have never really existed. Mere figments, created by you and lasting no longer than your whim, except, now and again, for an image that stamps itself on your retina like a dead leaf caught on your radiator—yet even that is even no more real than the rest.”
― Boileau-Narcejac, She Who Was No More

“Si lasciò sprofondare nella poltrona, abbandonando la testa sullo schienale. Non aveva più neanche la forza di portare la mano al fazzoletto per asciugarsi il sudore che gli colava sulla faccia. Forse, se avesse tentato di fare un gesto, di formulare un pensiero, avrebbe perso conoscenza. Restava immobile, ma l'immagine di Madeleine era ben impressa nella sua memoria, gli trapassava la mente da parte a parte come un dardo infuocato; ardeva sotto le palpebre abbassate. "Se è davvero lei, sto per morire" si disse. L'orario gli sfuggì dalle dita e scivolò sul parquet.”
― Boileau - Narcejac