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Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.

Gustave Flaubert

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Gustave Flaubert
Age: 58 †
Born: 1821
Born: December 12
Died: 1880
Died: May 8
Novelist
Writer
Flaubert
Plant
Literature
Hope
Everything
Perfumes
Even
Clings
Love
Springtime
Perfume
Ruins

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I don't believe that happiness is possible, but I think tranquility is.
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One mustn't ask apple trees for oranges, France for sun, women for love, life for happiness.
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All you have to do to make something interesting is to look at it long enough.
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It seems to me that I have always existed and that I possess memories that date back to the Pharaohs.
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Speech is a rolling press that always amplifies one's emotions.
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I hate that which we have decided to call realism, even though I have been made one of its high priests.
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The morality of art is in its very beauty.
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I am finding it very hard to get my novel started. I suffer from stylistic abscesses and sentences keep itching without coming to a head.
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I like prostitution. My heart has never failed to pound at the sight of one of those provocatively dressed women walking in the rain under the gaslamps, just as the sight of monks in their robes and girdles touches some ascetic, hidden corner of my soul.
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After the pain of this disappointment her heart once more stood empty, and the succession of identical days began again.
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I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.
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Our ignorance of history causes us to slander our own times. The ordinary person today lives better than a king did a century ago but is ungrateful!
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And he beholds the moon like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.
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As you get older, the heart shed its leaves like a tree. You cannot hold out against certain winds. Each day tears away a few more leaves and then there are the storms that break off several branches at one go. And while nature’s greenery grows back again in the spring, that of the heart never grows back.
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A memory is a beautiful thing, it's almost a desire that you miss.
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But some day sooner or later our passion would have cooled - inevitably - it's the way with everything human.
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I sometimes feel a great ennui, profound emptiness, doubts which sneer in my face in the midst of the most spontaneous satisfactions. Well, I would not exchange all that for anything, because it seems to me, in my conscience, that I am doing my duty, that I am obeying a superior fatality, that I am following the Good and that I am in the Right.
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DAGUERREOTYPE Will take the place of painting. (See PHOTOGRAPHY.) (From The Dictionary of Received Ideas, assembled from notes Flaubert made in the 1870s.)
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Sick, irritated, and the prey to a thousand discomforts, I go on with my labor like a true workingman, who, with sleeves rolled up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at his anvil, not caring whether it rains or blows, hails or thunders.
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I have patience in all things - as far as the antechamber.
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