Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country.
Interpretation
This quote suggests that men appreciate women writers, even if they do not openly express it, and likens writers to being from a different world.
Marguerite Duras expresses the sentiment that men subconsciously admire and are drawn to women who are writers, although this appreciation may not be verbally acknowledged. The comparison of a writer to a 'foreign country' implies that the unique perspective and experiences that writers possess create an allure that is intriguing and often unrecognized by those outside the literary realm.
In practice
This quote can be used in a speech about the importance of women's voices in literature.
Alcohol doesn't console, it doesn't fill up anyone's psychological gaps, all it replaces is the lack of God. It doesn't comfort man. On the contrary, it encourages him in his folly, it transports him to the supreme regions where he is master of his own destiny.
What she said was always strange. It had happened long ago. It seemed insignificant. And yet it was something you remembered forever. The words as well as the story. The voice as much as the words.
I'm still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I've never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door.
Perhaps someone will have seen mine, the one Iβm waiting for, just as I saw him, in a ditch when his hands were making their last appeal and his eyes no longer could see. Someone who will never know what that man was to me; someone whose name Iβll never know.
Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.
A prolonged silence ensues. The reason for the silence is our growing interest one for the other. No one is aware of it, no one yet; no one? am I quite sure?
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
To love is to find your own soul Through the soul of the beloved one.
Love is like ice in the hands of children.
The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly - by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep.
Sometimes it's a form of love just to talk to somebody that you have nothing in common with and still be fascinated by their presence.
True rebels after all, are as rare as true lovers,and in both cases, to mistake a fever for passion can destroy one's life
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