Best 8 quotes of Christian Bobin on MyQuotes

A few stars were approaching and in their brightness I glimpsed a fragment of your vanished soul – cheerful and frivolous, unforgettable.

A writer is anyone who follows only the truth of who they are, without ever relying on anything other than the poverty and solitude of that truth. In this respect, children and women in love are born writers.

Dans l'attente amoureuse des jeunes femmes, dans cette passion purifiée par l'absence, on touche à quelque chose comme la folie. Aucun homme ne s'aventure dans ces terres isolées de l'amour. Aucun homme ne sait répondre à la parole silencieuse. Les hommes retiennent toujours quelque chose auprès d'eux. Jusque dans les ruines, ils maintiennent une certitude - comme l'enfant garde une bille dans le fond de ses poches. Quand ils attendent, c'est quelque chose de précis qu'ils attendent. Quand ils perdent, c'est une seule chose qu'ils perdent. Les femmes espèrent tout, et puisque tout n'est pas possible elles le perdent en une seule fois - comme une manière de jouir de l'amour dans son manque. Elles continuent d'attendre ce qu'elles ne croient plus. C'est plus fort qu'elles. C'est bien plus fort que toute pensée. (p15)

Distance brings sweetness. Absence tames what is near.

In such blue beauty you sense the darkness into which the light will soon fall, and in this conjugal life of blue and black you find the one lesson of things that suits you, the proof of a certain excellence in this life where everything is given to us, every instant, blue with black, strength with hurt.

It is as if the angels had just done their laundry and, owning no other wealth than love, they are always clothed in the same light, worn transparent from so many washings.

Nothing is owed to us in life, not even the innocence of a blue sky. Great art is the art of thankfulness for the abundance of every moment. Writing is a Chinese variant of this thankfulness, a courtesy to life in its cloak of nothing, lined with love.

She tells you about herself, that is, about the people she loves. We are made of that, we are made of the people we love, nothing else. However reclusive our life might be, lost in hills seared with wind, it is never closer than in a cluster of beloved faces, in the thoughts that go out to them, in the breath that travels from them to us, from us to them.