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January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
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
Months
Producer
Evil
Pockets
Anxious
Month
Producers
Forehead
Theatre
Foreheads
Endure
January
Empty
Theatrical
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It is wise to apply the oil of refined politeness to the mechanisms of friendship.
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If he's getting married, he's not longer interesting.
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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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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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There are no ordinary cats.
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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.
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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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Time spent with a cat is never wasted.
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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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One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.
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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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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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Smokers, male and female, inject and excuse idleness in their lives every time they light a cigarette.
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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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Writing only leads to more writing.
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Hope costs nothing.
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Don't cudgel your brains over my little problems.
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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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You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.
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We only do well the things we like doing.
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