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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.

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
Longer
Link
Bits
Commonplace
Days
Links
Ends
Whenever
Littles
Despair
Necklace
Little
Miracle
Necklaces
Like
Luck
Glittering
Expect
Mend

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That lovely voice how I should weep for joy if I could hear it now!
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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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I've entered the world of wine without any professional training, but a definite appetite for good bottles.
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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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It is wise to apply the oil of refined politeness to the mechanisms of friendship.
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Truffles must come to the table in their own stock and as you break open this jewel sprung from a poverty-stricken soil, imagine - if you have never visited it - the desolate kingdom where it rules.
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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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beautiful December grapes, blue as plums, every grape a little skinful of sweet, tasteless water
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The day after that wedding night I found that a distance of a thousand miles, abyss and discovery and irremediable metamorphosis, separated me from the day before.
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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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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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Time spent with a cat is never wasted.
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In the matter of furnishing, I find a certain absence of ugliness far worse than ugliness.
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Writing only leads to more writing.
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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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By means of an image we are often able to hold on to our lost belongings. But it is the desperateness of losing which picks the flowers of memory, binds the bouquet.
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If he's getting married, he's not longer interesting.
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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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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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