Christelle Dabos

In the dusk, through a corridor of crimson-turning clouds, the moon already stood out, like a china plate, against the mauve backcloth of the sky.

Here, before you, I predict that your husband’s will is going to shatter against yours

“We’re living in a truly enigmatic world,” she said, shielding her glasses with her hand. “I’ve been reading all sorts of objects for years, and yet I feel as if I know nothing. An Earth shattered to pieces. Deliberately forgetful family spirits. Indecipherable Books. You.”

God could be so cruel in his indifference, he horrified me. God knew how to show his gentle side, too, and I loved him as I’ve loved no one else.

Who is God? What does God want? What does God look like?

All of his memories gravitate around this central character, and yet none of them can put a face to him. But the emotion choking him when, as now, he observes God from his table, from his folded arms, through the parting of his hair, is only too clear.

Fear.

He doesn’t understand, he has never understood, what God expects of him.

He is scared of becoming what God expects of him, and he is also scared of never becoming it.

It’s your heart that he really needs, not your hands.”

Having feared that she hadn’t earned Berenilde’s esteem, she now felt crushed under the weight of her expectations.

Hector was insatiably curious, asking his “why”s to anyone prepared to listen.

Ophelia tilted her head to see whether the sky was looking that menacing. She thought she was seeing things when, instead of clouds, she saw Thorn’s grim face.