How perfectly convenient that, yesterday, as I was waiting for the timer on the chocolate chip cookies to go off, I curled up in an armchair in our parlor* to get sucked into the first part of Suite Francaise, "Storm in June," while outside drops of rain as big as marbles fell all along the ground, and thunder shook the walls of this antique house.
My parents gave me this book for Christmas and I am finally getting around to reading it. It was actually the bit on the back of the book about the author, not the plot synopsis that caught my interest originally:
"When Irene Nemirovsky began working on Suite Francaise, she was already a highly successful writer living in Paris. But she was also a Jew, and in 1942 she was arrested and deported to Auschwitz, where she died. For sixty-four years, this novel remained hidden and unknown."
I really like the book so far. I am always so inspired by stories of ordinary people and the things that happen to them.
This part especially struck me:
"In all her life the woman had probably never said anything but ordinary things, like 'the leeks are getting bigger' or 'who's the dirty pig who got my floor all muddy?'...What are we in people's eyes, Maurice and I, other than two miserable employees? It's true in a way, but in another way, we are precious and unique. I know that too...All they could do was to keep walking and place themselves in the hands of God."
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