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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.

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
Truth
Bursts
Everything
Explosives
Choke
Blows
Buried
Blow
Chokes
Grows
Explosive
Force
Gathers

More quotes by Emile Zola

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Did not one spend the first half of one's days in dreams of happiness and the second half in regrets and terrors?
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Let us eat, drink and satisfy our coarse appetites, but let us keep our souls sacred and apart.
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It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.
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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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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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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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The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.
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If something's just, I'll let myself be hacked to bits for it.
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Governments are suspicious of literature because it is a force that eludes them.
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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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If people can just love each other a little bit, they can be so happy.
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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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I am an artist... I am here to live out loud.
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I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
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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 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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I do not despair in the least of ultimate triumph. I repeat it with intense conviction.
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What will be the death of me are buillabaisses, food spiced with pimiento, shellfish, and a load of exquisite rubbish which I eat in disproportionate quantities.
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The vague torment of ... ambition.
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How evil life must be if it were indeed necessary that such imploring cries, such cries of physical and moral wretchedness, should ever and ever ascend to heaven!
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