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Quand l'animation documente le réel

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Be the first. Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers. Linked Data More info about Linked Data. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy Terms and Conditions. Remember me on this computer. Cancel Forgot your password? Fathers, mothers, whose soul has suffered my suffering, everything I felt, did you feel it too? Victor Hugo found out about it in a newspaper while traveling.

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He never got over her death. We curse our hardships, but we don't realize, when they happen to us, that they will make us grow, and take us further. We don't want to know that. The pain is too great for us to see any virtue in it. But after the pain has gone, we look back in awe at the distance we have come because of it. On ne veut pas le savoir. La douleur est trop forte pour qu'on lui reconnaisse une vertu. How strange it is, you can resist tears victoriously, you can carry yourself very well at the most difficult moments.

Les Morts Nous Parlent T01 Ldp Litterature French Edition by Brune

And then Colette was referring to her own mother's letter. Et puis The sun of the living does not warm the dead. From hill to hill, in vain, my glance turns, from the south to the north wind, from the dawn to the sunset, I turn through all the points of this vast expanse, and I think, "No happiness awaits me anywhere. Useless things, whose charm for me has fled. Rivers, rocks, forests, solitudes once so dear, a single being is missing, and everything is forlorn! Whether the sun's journey is beginning or ending, I follow its path with an indifferent eye; in a dark sky or a cloudless one, whether it sets or it rises, what does the sun matter?

I expect nothing from the days. If I could follow the sun on its endless course, my eyes would see emptiness and desert everywhere; I wish for nothing of all that it lights up; I ask nothing of the immense universe. But perhaps beyond the bounds of its sphere, in places where the true sun lights up other skies, if I could leave my carcass on the earth, what I have so dreamed of would appear to my eyes! Why should I stay in the land of exile? There is nothing in common between the earth and me. When the forest leaf falls in the meadow, the evening wind rises and tears it away from the valleys; and I, I am like that withered leaf: carry me off like the leaf, stormy north winds!

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L'ombre des morts

Il n'est rien de commun entre la terre et moi. Speak to you? I cannot. I prefer to suffer like a plant, like the bird that says nothing on the linden tree. They wait. That's fine. Since they aren't tired of waiting, I'll wait, with the same waiting. They suffer alone. One should learn how to suffer alone. I don't want indifferent people ready to smile nor friends moaning.

Nightcore - Faded ( FRENCH VERSION ) Alan walker

No one come. The plant says nothing. The bird is silent. What would they say? This pain is alone in the world, whatever one wants. It is not the pain of others, it is mine. A leaf has its ache that the other leaf ignores. And the bird's ache-- the other bird knows nothing of it. One doesn't know. Who is like another? And if they were, what matter. This evening I don't want to hear a single vain word.

I wait--like the old motionless tree and the mute finch behind the window A drop of pure water, a little wind, who knows? What are they waiting for? We will wait for it together. The sun has told them it will come back, perhaps Vous parler? Je ne peux pas.

Les morsures de l'ombre

Ils attendent. C'est bien. Ils souffrent seuls. Que nul ne vienne. - Art Prints, Framed Art, Home Accessories, and Wall Art Ideas

La plante ne dit rien. L'oiseau se tait. Que dire? Cette douleur est seule au monde, quoi qu'on veuille. Elle n'est pas celle des autres, c'est la mienne. Une feuille a son mal qu'ignore l'autre feuille. Et le mal de l'oiseau, l'autre oiseau n'en sait rien. On ne sait pas. Qui se ressemble? Il me convient De n'entendre ce soir nulle parole vaine. Une goutte d'eau pure, un peu de vent, qui sait?

Nous l'attendrons ensemble. When you stopped at the archeological museum to contemplate the piece of hardened mud that conserves my form," said Arria Marcella, turning her long humid glance toward Octavian, "and when your thought flew ardently toward me, my soul felt it in that world where I float, invisible to common eyes; belief creates the god, and love creates the woman. One is not really dead until one is no longer loved. Your desire brought me back to life.