Marguerite

“Honey, I was born to this stuff I was singing "The Red Flag" while you were still stumbling over “Baa Baa Black Sheep””

— Anatole France

“It doesn’t seem to matter what you say your politics are - in here you’re quite happy to have women skivvy for you.””

— Anatole France

“People always found it funny when principled men betrayed themselves””

— Anatole France

“When did protest become a hobby for rich people?””

— Anatole France

“He's my godfather. But why would people need reassurance, Jim? Surely we're not that precious about the work of a man who died two hundred years ago that we can't let a woman and some non-white men sing his songs?””

— Anatole France

“At what point did the policeman stop? When he put his cock in? Whose was the sperm that had fathered her child? Was that erection, that constant need to get her knickers off all part of the performance?””

— Anatole France

“Don’t fuck them. That’s all it is. Don’t fuck any of them. Any of the men sitting at this table tonight, any of the men like them. Don’t do it unless you want to, and you really fancy them, and you’re in control of the situation. Right now, this evening, even though they’re trying to make you think you are, you’re not in control. You only have power here while you keep your legs closed. It sounds fucking sexist, but that’s because this is a fucking sexist shark pool we’re swimming in. They’ll put your beautiful face on their magazines, but the second they’ve had you they’ll chuck you aside.””

— Anatole France

“David Bowie was a fucking genius.’ Neil’s face got redder.‘Of course you would think that. Old white men love other old white men.’ The girl was so fabulously blunt Siobhan thought she might kiss her. Instead, she grabbed each of their hands in turn for a quick squeeze.””

— Anatole France

“He would usually start a story knowing exactly where he needed the words to take him to get to the end; telling Clio’s story, suddenly, he had no idea where it could possibly go. There was so much of her, spilling out in all directions, even after she’d drawn her own full stop. How did you do it? How did you use words, black on white with a finite limit, slotting into a predesigned space on a page, to describe what a person’s life had been?””

— Anatole France