Spring is here, I can almost smell it. The other day I walked by this magnolia tree.
„In spite of himself the man will retrace his steps. Again he sees the magnolias, the railings, the bay windows in the distance, still lit, still lit. On his lips, the song heard that afternoon, and the name that he will utter a little louder this time. He will come.
She knows it. The magnolia at her breast’s completely wilted. In one hour it has lived through a whole summer. Sooner or later the man will pass by the garden. He has come. She keeps torturing the flower at her breast.“
—Marguerite Duras, from Moderato Cantabile (Les Editions De Minuit, 1970)“