Lhoss

“Sweet Sunday Man, there is a fire at 27 rue de Fleurus. When you and the other guests show up for Saturday tea and see the flames, do you rush in to save my Mesdames, the contents of their cupboard, or their cook? The correct answer is Basket and Pépé. My Madame and Madame, as everyone knows, can take care of themselves. The cupboard also needs no assistance because Miss Toklas would run back into the burning apartment until every sheet of paper touched by GertrudeStein was safe in her arms. As for the cook, the assembled guests would scratch their heads and ask, "The Steins have a cook?”
― Monique Truong, The Book of Salt

“They say on the radio that our children will live better, easier lives in the future, but clearly you think that things will be more difficult for them than it has been for us. There’ll be an atomic war, perhaps?’ ‘Well, yes and no; but it’s not only to do with the bomb. Perhaps there won’t be a war at all – even if there is, it’ll not be soon. Nor am I talking about food problems. Simply, the wheel of time is gathering speed. They’ll have to approach everything on their own, using their own mind, and partly they’ll have to answer for what we did in the past. It’s always hard to have to think things out. Therefore, I say, life will be harder for them than it has been for us.”
― Chingiz Aitmatov, The Day Lasts More than a Hundred Years

“Language is a house with a host of doors, and I am too often uninvited and without the keys. But when I infiltrate their words, take a stab at their meanings, I create the trapdoors that will allow me in when the night outside is too cold and dark.”
― Monique Truong, The Book of Salt

“In there, in the only rooms in this city that we in truth can share, your body becomes more like mine. And as you know, mine marks me, announces my weakness, displays it as yellow skin. It flagrantly tells my story, or a compacted, distorted version of it, to passersby curious enough to cast their eyes my way. It stunts their creativity, dictates to them the limited list of who I could be. Foreigner, asiatique, and, this being Mother France, I must be Indochinese. They do not care to discern any further, ignoring the question of whether I hail from Vietnam, Cambodia, or Laos. Indochina, indeed. We all belong to the same owner, the same Monsieur and Madame. That must explain the failure to distinguish, the lapse in curiosity. To them, my body offers an exacting, predetermined life story. It cripples their imagination as it does mine. It tells them, they believe, all that they need to know about my past and, of lesser import, about the life that I now live within their present.”
― Monique Truong, The Book of Salt