Sarra Tebib

“I am myself indifferent honest," I admitted. "But yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us.”
― M. L. Rio

“La vérité, avec l'amour, c'est que le cœur sait tout de suite et il le crie. Bien sûr, on ne va pas déclarer à la personne qu'on l'aime, comme ça, de but en blanc. Elle ne comprendrait pas. Alors, histoire de se cacher qu'on est déjà son otage, on lui fait la conversation.”
― Hervé Le Tellier, The Anomaly

“I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

II.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago);
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER14
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

III.
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunèd law;
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

IV.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

V.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
EDGAR ALLAN POE 15
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

VI.
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher

“Moi j’aime la pluie au cimetière Saint-Jean. Papa, Maman, vous aimez bien la pluie aussi, quand on est mort on aime la pluie parce que ça ressemble aux larmes. Quand je suis petit je ne sais pas dire « il pleut », je dis : « il pleure ».”
― J.M.G. Le Clézio, Alma