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Boredom, that silent spider, was spinning its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.

Gustave Flaubert

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Gustave Flaubert
Age: 58 †
Born: 1821
Born: December 12
Died: 1880
Died: May 8
Novelist
Writer
Flaubert
Blessing
Silent
Darkness
Spider
Heart
Spiders
Every
Spinning
Corner
Boredom
Corners

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Of all lies, art is the least untrue.
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I have patience in all things - as far as the antechamber.
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After a person dies, there is always something like a feeling of stupefaction, so difficult is it to comprehend this unexpected advent of nothingness and to resign oneself to believing it.
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What is the beautiful, if not the impossible.
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As words have an effective power of their own, curses reported against someone might turn against the speaker.
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We swung between madness and suicide ... it was beautiful!
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The faster the word sticks to the thought, the more beautiful is the effect.
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Doesn't it seem to you, asked Madame Bovary, that the mind moves more freely in the presence of that boundless expanse, that the sight of it elevates the soul and gives rise to thoughts of the infinite and the ideal?
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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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He loved the extensive vaults where you could hear the night birds and the sea breeze he loved the craggy ruins bound together by ivy, those dark halls, and any appearance of death and destruction. Having fallen so far from so high a position, he loved anything that had also fallen from a great height
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A good sentence in prose should be like a good line in poetry, unchangeable, as rhythmic, as sonorous.
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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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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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My life which I dream will be so beautiful, so poetic, so vast, so filled with love will turn out to be like everybody else's - monotonous, sensible, stupid.
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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, 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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I'm absolutely removed from the world at such times...The hours go by without my knowing it. Sitting there I'm wandering in countries I can see every detail of - I'm playing a role in the story I'm reading. I actually feel I'm the characters - I live and breath with them.
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He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides
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Stupidity is an immovable object: you can't try to attack it wiithout being broken by 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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