Fresh Water for Flowers

It’s a luxury to be the owner of one’s time. I think it’s one of the greatest luxuries human beings can afford themselves.

You're no longer where you were, but you are everywhere that I am.

You must learn to be generous with your absence to those who haven’t understood the importance of your presence.

We think that death is an absence, when in fact it's a secret presence.

As I go to bed, I think how awful it would be to die in the middle of reading a good novel.

We never meet people by chance. They are destined to cross our paths for a reason.

There’s something stronger than death, and that’s the presence of those absent in the memory of the living.

When we miss one person, everywhere becomes deserted.

... you will be everywhere my eyes come to rest. Wherever my heart resides, yours will continue to beat.

Don't judge each day by what you can pick, but by the seeds you sow.

If a flower grew every time I thought of you, the earth would be one massive garden.

I often speak of Léonine to others because not speaking of her would be to make her die all over again. Not to speak her name would make the silence win. I live with my memory of her, but I tell no one that she is a memory. I make her live elsewhere. When I’m asked for a photo of her, I show her as

It’s the words they didn’t say that make the dead so heavy in their coffins.

When someone has gone, they’ve gone. Except in the minds of those who remain. And the mind of just one man is much bigger than the universe.

I like giving life. Sowing, watering, harvesting. And starting again every year. I like life just as it is today. Bathed in sunshine. I like being at the essence of things.

Love is when you meet someone who gives you news about yourself.

We would never be friends. We would remain two lives that brushed against one another every day.

The death of a mother is the first sorrow one weeps over without her.

Death begins when no one can dream of you any longer.

Everything is ephemeral, Violette, we’re merely passing through.

The earth conceals you, but my heart still sees you.

Death begins when no one can dream of you any longer.” It’s on the grave of a young nurse, Marie Deschamps, who died in 1917. Apparently, it was a soldier who put up this plaque in 1919. Every time I go past it, I wonder whether he dreamt of her for a long time.

The book of life is the ultimate book, which we can neither close nor reopen at will; when we want to return to the page on which we love, the page on which we die is already between our fingers.

But since I've never had a taste for unhappiness, I decided it wouldn't last. Unhappiness has to stop someday.

On the day all these photos were taken, none of the men, children, women who posed innocently in front of the camera could have thought that that moment would represent them for all eternity.

often speak of Léonine to others because not speaking of her would be to make her die all over again. Not to speak her name would make the silence win. I live with my memory of her, but I tell no one that she is a memory. I make her live elsewhere.