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A ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to lie rotting on the ground.

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
Men
Rotting
Like
Ripe
Ruined
Fell
Fruit
Ground
Lying
Hands

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I am an artist... I am here to live out loud.
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It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.
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The vague torment of ... ambition.
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The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.
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A god of kindness would be charitable to all. Your god of wrath and punishment is but a monstrous phantasy.
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I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
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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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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 something's just, I'll let myself be hacked to bits for it.
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Why then should money be blamed for all the dirt and crimes it causes? For is love less filthy -- love which creates life?
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Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.
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When truth is buried, it grows. It chokes. It gathers such an explosive force that on the day it bursts out, it blows up everything with it.
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Art is a corner of creation seen through a temperament.
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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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They talked so, with secret hearts, without needing words, talking of other things... They could have suddenly continued their confessions aloud, without ceasing to understand each other.
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I am little concerned with beauty or perfection. I don't care for the great centuries. All I care about is life, struggle, intensity.
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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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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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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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Everything is only a dream.
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