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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
Still
Wall
Seclusion
Head
Solitary
Days
Poison
Freedom
Bitter
Makes
Beat
Others
Solitude
Intoxicates
Someone
Beats
Heady
Stills
Wine
Tonic
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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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We only do well the things we like doing.
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A woman who thinks she is intelligent demands the same rights as man. An intelligent woman gives up.
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A happy childhood is poor preparation for human contacts.
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It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.
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Jealousy is not at all low, but it catches us humbled and bowed down, at first sight.
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At sixty-three years of age, less a quarter, one still has plans.
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I am going away with him to an unknown country where I shall have no past and no name, and where I shall be born again with a new face and an untried heart.
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The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time.
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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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January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
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A pretty little collection of weaknesses and a terror of spiders are our indispensable stock-in-trade with the men...
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beautiful December grapes, blue as plums, every grape a little skinful of sweet, tasteless water
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I've entered the world of wine without any professional training, but a definite appetite for good bottles.
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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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Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging themselves with a great display of frenzy into an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine of the abyss: It's four o clock. At five I have my abyss.
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There is no need to waste pity on young girls who are having their moments of disillusionment, for in another moment they will recover their illusion.
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Be happy. It's one way of being wise.
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In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
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