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beautiful December grapes, blue as plums, every grape a little skinful of sweet, tasteless water
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
Every
Grapes
December
Blue
Sweet
Water
Beautiful
Tasteless
Littles
Grape
Little
Plums
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If he's getting married, he's not longer interesting.
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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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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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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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I've entered the world of wine without any professional training, but a definite appetite for good bottles.
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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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One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.
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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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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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No temptation can ever be measured by the value of its object.
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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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You don't think before you do something foolish. You do your thinking afterwards.
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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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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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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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In the matter of furnishing, I find a certain absence of ugliness far worse than ugliness.
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That lovely voice how I should weep for joy if I could hear it now!
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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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It is wise to apply the oil of refined politeness to the mechanisms of friendship.
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