She’s dressed in old European clothes, scraps of brocade, out-of- date old suits, old curtains, odd oddments, old models, moth- eaten old fox furs, old otterskins, that’s her kind of beauty, tattered, chill, plaintive and in exile, everything too big, and yet it looks marvellous. Her clothes are loose, she’s too thin, nothing fits yet it looks marvellous. She’s made in such a way, face and body, that anything that touches her shares immediately and infallibly in her beauty.
Marguerite Duras, The Lover
« Plus je me révèle, plus le mystère s’épaissit. »