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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.

Gustave Flaubert

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Gustave Flaubert
Age: 58 †
Born: 1821
Born: December 12
Died: 1880
Died: May 8
Novelist
Writer
Flaubert
High
Literature
Call
Though
Hate
Even
Realism
Made
Priests
Decided

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One never tires of what is well written, style is life! It is the very blood of thought!
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Life must be a constant education one must learn everything, from speaking to dying.
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The heart, like the stomach, wants a varied diet.
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For some men, the stronger their desire, the more difficult it is for them to act.
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COLD. Healthier than heat.
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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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You can't find the soul with a scalpel.
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Always 'duty.' I am sick of the word. They are a lot of old blockheads in flannel vests and of old women with foot-warmers and rosaries who constantly drone into our ears 'Duty, duty!' Ah! by Jove! one's duty is to feel what is great, cherish the beautiful, and not accept all the conventions of society with the ignominy that it imposes upon us.
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Everything is there: the love of Art.
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It is always sad to leave a place to which one knows one will never return.
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Abstraction can provide stumbling blocks for people of strange intelligence.
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Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a monstrosity, something outside of nature.
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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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Boredom, that silent spider, was spinning its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.
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How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
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Only three things are infinite. The sky in its stars, the sea in its drops of water, and the heart in its tears.
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You can calculate the worth of a man by the number of his enemies, and the importance of a work of art by the harm that is spoken of it.
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It’s hard to communicate anything exactly and that’s why perfect relationships between people are difficult to find.
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He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides
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And he beholds the moon like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.
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