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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
Ruined
Fell
Fruit
Ground
Lying
Hands
Men
Rotting
Like
Ripe

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Nothing develops intelligence like travel.
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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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The camembert with its venison scent defeats the Marolles and Limbourg dull smells It spreads its exhalation, smothering the other scents under its surprising breath abundance.
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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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A new dynasty is never founded without a struggle. Blood makes good manure.
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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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A god of kindness would be charitable to all. Your god of wrath and punishment is but a monstrous phantasy.
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The word realist means nothing to me, because I would subordinate reality to temperament. Give me what is true and I applaud but give me what is individual and alive and I applaud even more.
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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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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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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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Through the centuries, the history of peoples is but a lesson in mutual tolerance.
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They dared not peer down into their own natures, down into the feverish confusion that filled their minds with a kind of dense, acrid mist.
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If something's just, I'll let myself be hacked to bits for it.
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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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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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I do not despair in the least of ultimate triumph. I repeat it with intense conviction.
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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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