Poil de Carotte Quotes

“Neglected by his parents, bullied by his peers, left to wander the streets and woods by himself ...”

“When he isn’t locked in his room or the cellar for punishment), the little redheaded boy known as ‘Poil de Carotte’ [‘Carrot Top’] manages to triumph through imagination, cunning, and sheer persistence.”

“The partridges struggle frantically. They flap their wings and send feathers flying. They simple refuse to die. He’d find it easier to strangle a friend. He wedges them between his knees to hold them still. Red and white by turns, bathed in sweat, head hight to avoid seeing, he squeezes harder.”

“Poil de Carotte doesn’t like overnight guests. They upset his routine; they take his bed and oblige him to sleep with his mother. And though in the daytime he has every fault, his main fault at night is snoring. Of course he snores on purpose.”

“Buttocks glued together, heels solidly planted, Poil of Carotte stands trembling in the darkness. The blackness is so dense that he thinks he’s blind. From time to time a gust of wind enfolds him like an icy sheet and threatens to carry him away.”

“It is the lyrical account of a hard-knock provincial childhood and a frighteningly acute psychological study of how cruelty can affect a young mind-a book that is by turns chilling, humorous, and quietly beautiful.”

“Elbows on the table, Monsieur Lepic and sister Ernestine are reading beneath the lamp, he his paper, she the book she has won as a prize at school; Madame Lepic is knitting, big brother Felix is toasting his feet by the fire, and Poil de Carrot on the floor is remembering things.”

“As usual, Monsieur Lepic empties his game bag on the table. It contains two partridges. Big brother Felix marks them down on the slate that hangs on the wall. That is his chore. Each of the children has one. Sister Ernestine cleans and plucks the birds.”

“But without waiting to be told, Poil de Carotte has gone out to see what’s wrong. Maybe a farmhand who’s been working late, going quietly home _unless he’s climbing the garden wall to steal something. Poil de Carotte makes his way down the long corridor, holding out his hands in the direction of the door.”

“The only way is to make a blind dash, head down so as to bore through the blackness. He gropes, he finds the latch at the door. At the sound of his steps, the hens flutter and cluck in their roost. Poil de Carotte cries out, ‘Pipe down, will you, it’s me,’ shuts the door and runs.”