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How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.

Gustave Flaubert

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Gustave Flaubert
Age: 58 †
Born: 1821
Born: December 12
Died: 1880
Died: May 8
Novelist
Writer
Flaubert
Heart
Carries
Carrie
Souls
Hearts
Dead
Within
Keep
Soul

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He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides
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Speech is a rolling press that always amplifies one's emotions.
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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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You don't know what it is to stay a whole day with your head in your hands trying to squeeze your unfortunate brain so as to find a word.
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A thing derided is a thing dead a laughing man is stronger than a suffering man.
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We have all been beaten! Each one has to bear his misfortune! Resign yourself!
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There comes a point at which you stop writing and think all the more
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Everything which one invents is true, be sure of it.
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One's existence should be in two parts: one should live like a bourgeois and think like a demigod.
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Do not imagine you can exorcise what oppresses you in life by giving vent to it in art.
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Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.
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Success is a consequence and must not be a goal. I've never sought it (though I desire it) and seek it less and less.
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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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Do not read, as children do, to amuse yourself, or like the ambitious, for the purpose of instruction. No, read in order to live.
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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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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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Prose is like hair it shines with combing.
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The only way to avoid being unhappy is to close yourself up in Art and to count for nothing all the rest.
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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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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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