Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse

ig: lostpalette

“The history of literature is the history of the human mind.“ 

THERE ARE MANY BOOKS ON A PARISIENNE’S BOOKSHELF: 

The books you so often claim you’ve read that you actually believe you have.

The books you read in school from which you remember only the main character’s name.

The art books your parents give you each Christmas so you can get some “culture”.

The art books that you bought yourself and which you really love.

The books that you’ve been promising yourself you’ll read next summer … for the past ten years.

The books you bought only because you liked the title.

The books that you think makes you cool.

The books you read over and over again, and that evolve along with your life.

The books that remind you of someone you loved.

The books you keep for your children, just in case you ever have any.

The books whose first ten pages you’ve read so many times you know them by heart.

The books you own simply because you must and, taken together, form intangible proof that you are well read.

AND THEN THERE ARE THE BOOKS YOU HAVE READ, LOVED, AND WHICH ARE A PART OF YOUR IDENTITY:

The Stranger, Albert Camus

The Elementary Particles, Michel Houellebecq

Belle du Seigneur, Albert Cohen 

Bonjour Tristesse, Françoise Sagan

Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

L'Écume des jours, Boris Vian

Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire

Journey to the End of the Night, Louis-Ferdinand Céline

À la recherche du temps perdu, Marcel Proust