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We live always under the weight of the old and odious customs... of our barbarous ancestors.

Guy de Maupassant

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Guy de Maupassant
Age: 42 †
Born: 1850
Born: August 5
Died: 1893
Died: July 6
Author
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Short Story Writer
Writer
Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant
Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Valmont
Joseph Prunier
Weight
Politics
Live
Always
Odious
Barbarous
Ancestors
Ancestor
Customs

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Love always has its price, come whence it may.
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She was the temptress who had ensnared the first man, and who still continued her work at damnation she was the being who is feeble, dangerous, mysteriously troubling. And even more than her body of perdition, he hated her loving soul.
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Of all the passions, the only one that seems respectable to me is the passion for food
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We breathe love as we breathe air we hold it in ourselves as we hold our thoughts. Nothing more exists for us.
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Anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of enemies.
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I said, 'If other beings besides us exist on Earth, why didn't we meet them a long time ago?
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Great minds that are healthy are never considered geniuses, while this sublime qualification is lavished on brains that are often inferior but are slightly touched by madness.
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The public is composed of numerous groups whose cry to us writers is: 'Comfort me.' 'Amuse me.' 'Touch my sympathies.' 'Make me sad.' 'Make me dream.' 'Make me laugh.' 'Make me shiver.' 'Make me weep.' 'Make me think.'
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Patriotism is a kind of religion it is the egg from which wars are hatched.
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Love is always love, come whence it may. A heart that beats at your approach, an eye that weeps when you go away are things so rare, so sweet, so precious that they must never be despised.
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I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing
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To avoid each other, their eyes had developed an amazing mobility with all the cunning of enemies fearful of meeting each other head on.
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One sometimes weeps over one's illusions with as much bitterness as over a death.
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Night was a very different matter. It was dense, thicker than the very walls, and it was empty, so black, so immense that within it you could brush against appalling things and feel roaming and prowling around a strange, mysterious horror.
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A sick thought can devour the body's flesh more than fever or consumption.
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We breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work and then die! The end of life is death. What do you long for? Love? A few kisses and you will be powerless. Money? What for? To gratify your desires. Glory? What coems after it all? Death! Death alone is certain.
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Travel, like dreams, is a door that opens from the real world into a world that is yet to be discovered
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We are accustomed to use our eyes only with the memory of what other people before us have thought about the object we are looking at.
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I know nothing more enjoyable than that happy-go-lucky wandering life, in which you are perfectly free without shackles of any kind, without care, without preoccupation, without thought even of to-morrow. You go in any direction you please, without any guide save your fancy.
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A man forced to spend his life without ever having the right, without ever finding the time, to shut himself up all alone, no matter where, to think, to reflect, to work, to dream? Ah! my dear boy, a key, the key of a door which one can lock this is happiness, mark you, the only happiness!
Guy de Maupassant