« There's a time for everything under the sky. A time to give birth, and a time to die; A time to cry, and a time to laugh; a time to moan, and a time to dance. A time to search, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away. a time to shut up, and a time to talk. »

« She `Marie-Aude Murail at the age of 12`: With all my strength I refuse the murder of soul! The murder of a soul because of two or three toddlers. The equipment won't kill me. Rub the brass, do the silverware, seen? In a family everyone must bear their share of daily mediocrity or there is a sacrifice. The eternal sacrificed. But I'm not going to be that one. Not out of selfishness, but out of refusal of ease, I won't be that one. Me `Marie-Aude Murail today`: You refuse to be a woman like "that one," I refused to be a mother like "that one." Then I was a woman like the others, a mother like all mothers. Do I regret it? Is that what you want to know? I was sometimes surprised that Mum was satisfied with a vicarious artistic life, but I was hurt by the reason that my father, despite his four children, considered his life to be a failure because he was a misunderstood poet. What do I conclude? That for me the full cardboard, the successful life, is Dickens and his ten children? But this is a male figure. If you look at women writers, what do you see? Jane Austen, no children; the Bronte sisters, no children; Madame d'Aulnoy, a "White Cat" and a "Blue Bird"; Beatrix Potter, rabbits; Marguerite Yourcenar, no children; Colette, a 40-year-old girl; Alexandra David-Néel, a Tibetan adopted son; Simone de Beauvoir, a adopted daughter as an adult; Anaïs Nin, no child; Virginia Woolf, no children; Hannah Arendt, no children; Selma Lagerlif, no children; Karen Blixen, no child ... Ok, the Countess of Segur, eight children, but she published after raising them. Would I have written better if I had been a free woman, with no children to watch in the garden, no shopping cart to fill in Carrefour? I probably would have written more. And surely something else. I wrote in the hubbub of life, my notebook on my lap, kids taking their snacks or doing their homework next to me, with Goldorak in the background. I didn't have the room of my own until I was 42, and contrary to Virginia's recommendation, it didn't lock. When I was writing, I had an angel behind my back. »

« - Why do you have to pretend to be happy? - But for Facebook! She exclaimed as if addressing a inhabitant of the Moon. "I'm sorry?" - For photos on Facebook! Like this. (Through her tears, she smiled big in banana.) Otherwise, can you imagine what your friends are saying? »