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There are days when solitude, for someone my age, is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.
Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
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Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
Age: 81 †
Born: 1873
Born: January 28
Died: 1954
Died: August 3
Actor
Ghostwriter
Journalist
Librettist
Novelist
Playwright
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
Montagne-sur-Loing
Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette
Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
Someone
Beats
Heady
Stills
Wine
Tonic
Still
Wall
Seclusion
Head
Solitary
Days
Poison
Freedom
Bitter
Makes
Beat
Others
Solitude
Intoxicates
More quotes by Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
I am indebted to the cat for a particular kind of honorable deceit, for a greater control over myself, for a characteristic aversion to brutal sounds, and for the need to keep silent for long periods of time.
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Be happy. It's one way of being wise.
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If I can't have too many truffles, I'll do without truffles.
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Writing only leads to more writing.
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There are no ordinary cats.
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A happy childhood is poor preparation for human contacts.
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- and how time flies! What, has it already been twenty years, already forty years that we are together? Why, how terrible! We haven't yet said all we wanted to say to each other... May we have a little respite, or else may we be allowed to begin all over again!
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That lovely voice how I should weep for joy if I could hear it now!
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Is suffering so very serious? ...I'm referring to the kind of suffering a man inflicts on a woman or a woman on a man. It's extremely painful... hardly bearable. But I very much fear that this sort of pain... is no more worthy of respect than old age or illness.
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The only virtue on which I pride myself is my self-doubt when a writer loses her self-doubt, the time has come to lay aside her pen.
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Don't cudgel your brains over my little problems.
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I went to collect the few personal belongings which...I held to be invaluable: my cat, my resolve to travel, and my solitude.
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January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
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By an image we hold on to our lost treasures, but it is the wrenching loss that forms the image, composes, binds the bouquet.
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You don't think before you do something foolish. You do your thinking afterwards.
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At sixty-three years of age, less a quarter, one still has plans.
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If he's getting married, he's not longer interesting.
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Books, books, books. It was not that I read so much. I read and re-read the same ones. But all of them were necessary to me. Their presence, their smell, the letters of their titles, and the texture of their leather bindings.
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So now, whenever I despair, I no longer expect my end, but some bit of luck, some commonplace little miracle which, like a glittering link, will mend again the necklace of my days.
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I love my past, I love my present. I am not ashamed of what I have had, and I am not sad because I no longer have it.
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