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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
Hope
Everything
Perfumes
Even
Clings
Love
Springtime
Perfume
Ruins
Plant
Literature

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Writing history is like drinking an ocean and pissing a cupful.
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You need a high degree of corruption or a very big heart to love absolutely everything
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Prose is like hair it shines with combing.
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Life must be a constant education one must learn everything, from speaking to dying.
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The idea of bringing someone into the world fills me with horror. I would curse myself if I were a father. A son of mine! Oh no, no, no! May my entire flesh perish and may I transmit to no one the aggravations and the disgrace of existence.
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But an infinity of passions can be contained in a minute, like a crowd in a tiny space.
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[The artist] is like a pump he has inside him a great pipe that reaches down into the entrails of things, the deepest layers. He sucks up what was lying there below, dim and unnoticed, and brings it in great jets to the sunlight.
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Antiquite . en tout ce qui s'y rapporte: Est poncif, embe tant! etc. Antiquity. And everything to do with it, cliche d and boring.
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Better to work for yourself alone. You do as you like and follow your own ideas, you admire yourself and please yourself: isn’t that the main thing? And then the public is so stupid. Besides, who reads? And what do they read? And what do they admire?
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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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In my view, the novelist has no right to express his opinions on the things of this world. In creating, he must imitate God: do his job and then shut up.
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Everything, even herself, was now unbearable to her. She wished that, taking wing like a bird, she could fly somewhere, far away to regions of purity, and there grow young again.
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What is beautiful is moral, that is all there is to it.
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Writing this book I am like a man playing the piano with lead balls attached to his knuckles.
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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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Madame Aubain's servant Felicite was the envy of the ladies of Pont-l'Eveque for half a century.
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There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it
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Thought is the greatest of pleasures —pleasure itself is only imagination—have you ever enjoyed anything more than your dreams?
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Years passed and he endured the idleness of his intelligence and the inertia of his heart.
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Here is true immorality: ignorance and stupidity the devil is nothing but this. His name is Legion.
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