The Most Beautiful Book In The World - Plot & Excerpts
“You’re mistaken, darling.” “What? Just have a look outside. You’ll soon see how it’s pouring down!” “Precisely.” He moved onto the terrace, venturing into the garden only as far as the first raindrops and, nostrils flared, ears alert, head thrown back the better to feel the damp breeze on his face, sniffing the mercury sky with his eyes half-closed, he murmured, “It’s a fine rainy day.” He seemed to mean it. That day, she became categorically certain of two things: that he annoyed her, profoundly, and, if she could, she would never leave him. Hélène could not remember having ever experienced a perfect moment. When she was little, she often surprised her parents with her behavior—constantly tidying her room, changing her clothes the moment there was the slightest spot on them, braiding her hair over and over until she obtained an impeccable symmetry; she shuddered with horror when they took her to see Swan Lake because she alone noticed that there was a lack of rigor in the alignment of the dancers, that their tutus did not all drop down together, and that every time there was a ballerina—never the same one—who disrupted the harmony of the movement.
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