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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.

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
Eyes
Looking
Eye
Use
Accustomed
Thought
Object
People
Memory
Objects
Memories

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The simplest of women are wonderful liars who can extricate themselves from the most difficult dilemmas with a skill bordering on genius.
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...A strange art – music – the most poetic and precise of all the arts, vague as a dream and precise as algebra.
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You've never lived until you've almost died. For those who have fought for it, life has a flavor the protected shall never know.
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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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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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A human being - what is a human being? Everything and nothing. Through the power of thought it can mirror everything it experiences. Through memory and knowledge it becomes a microcosm, carrying the world within itself. A mirror of things, a mirror of facts. Each human being becomes a little universe within the universe!
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Anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of enemies.
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There is only one good thing in life, and that is love. And how you misunderstand it! how you spoil it! You treat it as something solemn like a sacrament, or something to be bought, like a dress.
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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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Broad daylight does not encourage the apprehension of horror.
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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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Ale, not beer, in a pewter mug was comme il faut, the only thing for a gentleman of letters, worthy of the name, to drink.
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One sometimes weeps over one's illusions with as much bitterness as over a death.
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Since governments take the right of death over their people, it is not astonishing if the people should sometimes take the right of death over governments.
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And taking her friend’s hand, she put it on her breast, on that firm round covering of a woman’s heart which the male often finds so satisfying that he makes no attempt to find what lies beneath it.
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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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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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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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Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
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Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms
Guy de Maupassant