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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.

Gustave Flaubert

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Gustave Flaubert
Age: 58 †
Born: 1821
Born: December 12
Died: 1880
Died: May 8
Novelist
Writer
Flaubert
Word
Hands
Find
Whole
Squeeze
Trying
Unfortunate
Stay
Head
Brain

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I have dreamed much and have done very little.
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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 principal thing in the world is to keep the soul aloft.
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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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And he beholds the moon like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.
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Anything becomes interesting if you look at it long enough.
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I go from exasperation to a state of collapse, then I recover and go from prostration to Fury, so that my average state is one of being annoyed.
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My foregrounds are imaginary, my backgrounds real.
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La parole humaine est comme un chaudron fe le o u' nous battons des me lodies a' faire danser les ours, quand on voudrait attendrir les e toiles. Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, when all the time we are longing to move the stars to pity.
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There is no truth. There is only perception.
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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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How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
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You can't find the soul with a scalpel.
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To see one's name in print! Some people commit a crime for no other reason.
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I invite all brats to throw their cookies at the baker's head if they're not sweet, winos to chuck their wine if it's bad, the dying to shuck their souls when they croak, and men to throw their existence in God's face when it's bitter
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Abstraction can provide stumbling blocks for people of strange intelligence.
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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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DOCTOR. Always preceded by 'The good'. Among men, in familiar conversation, 'Oh! balls, doctor!' Is a wizard when he enjoys your confidence, a jack-ass when you're no longer on terms. All are materialists: 'you can't probe for faith with a scalpel.'
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Talent is a long patience.
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It is always sad to leave a place to which one knows one will never return.
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