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The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.

Emile Zola

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Emile Zola
Age: 62 †
Born: 1840
Born: January 1
Died: 1902
Died: January 1
Art Critic
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Photographer
Playwright
Poet
Political Journalist
Short Story Writer
Theatre Critic
Paris
France
Emile Edouard Charles Antoine Zola
Gravestone
Cemetery
Illusions
Toes
Illusion
Simply
Past
Gravestones

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If something's just, I'll let myself be hacked to bits for it.
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I do not despair in the least of ultimate triumph. I repeat it with intense conviction.
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Art for me...is a negation of society, an affirmation of the individual, outside of all the rules and all the demands of society.
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These young people naturally grow up with ideas different from ours, for they are born for times when we shall no longer be here
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I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
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Every wave is a water sprite who swims in the current, each current is a path which snakes towards my palace, and my palace is fluidly built at the bottom of the lake, in the triangle of earth, fire and water.
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The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.
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The conclusion does not belong to the artist.
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A ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to lie rotting on the ground.
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In love as in speculation there is much filth in love also, people think only of their own gratification yet without love there would be no life, and the world would come to an end.
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If people can just love each other a little bit, they can be so happy.
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Man's highest duty is to protect animals from cruelty.
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And that wreched creature without hands or feet, who had to be put to bed and fed like a child, that pitiable remnant of a man, whose almost vanished life was nothing more than one scream of pain, cried out in furious indignation: 'What a fool one must be to go and kill oneself!' - 'Joy of Life
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Over all crowds there seems to float a vague distress, an atmosphere of pervasive melancholy, as if any large gathering of people creates an aura of terror and pity.
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A new dynasty is never founded without a struggle. Blood makes good manure.
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Art is a corner of creation seen through a temperament.
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Since the same human mire remains beneath, does not all civilization reduce itself to the superiority of smelling nice and living well?
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Perfection is such a nuisance that I often regret having cured myself of using tobacco.
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The fate of animals is of greater importance to me than the fear of appearing ridiculous it is indissolubly connected with the fate of men.
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