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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
Like
Ripe
Ruined
Fell
Fruit
Ground
Lying
Hands
Men
Rotting

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A new dynasty is never founded without a struggle. Blood makes good manure.
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I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
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It all seemed a hollow sham now - that strict code, that conscientious virtue that condemned her to the sterile joys of pious women! No, no, she'd had enough of that she wanted to live!
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Civilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest.
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The vague torment of ... ambition.
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In my view you cannot claim to have seen something until you have photographed it.
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It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.
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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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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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The conclusion does not belong to the artist.
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Has science ever retreated? No! It is Catholicism which has always retreated before her, and will always be forced to retreat.
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Nothing develops intelligence like travel.
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The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.
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Why is it that my heart is so touched whenever I meet a dog lost in our noisy streets? Why do I feel such anguished pity when I see one of these creatures coming and going, sniffing everyone, frightened, despairing of even finding its master?
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When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it is because they are searching, feeling for one another's lips. Lovers are made by a kiss.
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Governments are suspicious of literature because it is a force that eludes them.
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Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.
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If people can just love each other a little bit, they can be so happy.
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Did science promise happiness? I do not believe it. It promised truth, and the question is to know if we will ever make happiness with truth.
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I am an artist... I am here to live out loud.
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