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Unintelligent persons are like weeds that thrive in good ground they love to be amused in proportion to the degree in which they weary themselves.

Honore de Balzac

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Honore de Balzac
Age: 52 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 20
Died: 1851
Died: August 19
Art Critic
Dramaturge
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Prosaist
Writer
Tours
France
Balzac
Horace de Saint- Aubin
Onoreh deh Balzaḳ
Lord R'Hoone
Ônôrē de Balzaq
Jeune ceélibataire
Onore de Balzak
Honorato De Balzac
H. Balzak
Honoreé De Balzac
H. Balzac
Horace de S.- Aubin
Honoriusz Balzac
Un Jeune ceélibataire
Lord O'Rhoone
Ūnūrīh dī Balzāk
R'Hoone
Onore de Bal'zak
Hônôrê đơ Banzăc
Honore de Balzak
de. Balzac
Degrees
Weeds
Ground
Amused
Literature
Weary
Persons
Marijuana
Good
Weed
Love
Thrive
Like
Proportion
Degree
Unintelligent

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A mother's happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.
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The most virtuous women have within them something that is never chaste.
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We must certainly acknowledge that solitude is a fine thing but it is a pleasure to have some one who can answer, and to whom we can say, from time to time, that solitude is a fine thing.
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But reason always cuts a poor figure beside sentiment the one being essentially restricted, like everything that is positive, while the other is infinite.
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Political liberty, the peace of a nation, and science itself are gifts for which Fate demands a heavy tax in blood!
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Above all do not ask that justice be just: It is just, because it is justice. The idea of a just justice could have originated only in the brain of an anarchist.
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When an intelligent man reaches the point of inviting self-explanation and offers surrendering the key to his heart, he is assuredly riding a drunken horse.
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Women see everything or nothing according to the inclination of their hearts. Love is their sole light.
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Time is the only capital of those who just have their inteligence as fortune.
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God is the author, men are only the players. These grand pieces which are played upon earth have been composed in heaven.
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For a sick man the world begins at his pillow and ends at the foot of his bed.
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Ideas devour the ages as men are devoured by their passions. When man is cured, human nature will cure itself perhaps.
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Art's greatest efforts are invariably a timid counterfeit of Nature.
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Man's condition is horrible because, no matter what form his happiness may take, it arises from some species of ignorance.
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Talent is a flame, but genius is a fire.
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Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.
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Death unites as well as separates it silences all paltry feeling.
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The boor covers himself, the rich man or the fool adorns himself, and the elegant man gets dressed.
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Virtue, perhaps, is nothing more than politeness of soul.
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Modern society includes three types of men who can never think very highly of the world--the priest, the physician, and the attorney-at-law. They all wear black, too, for are they not in mourning for every virtue and every illusion?
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