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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
Grape
Littles
Plums
Little
Every
Grapes
December
Blue
Sweet
Water
Tasteless
Beautiful
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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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January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
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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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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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One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.
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We only do well the things we like doing.
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At sixty-three years of age, less a quarter, one still has plans.
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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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Smokers, male and female, inject and excuse idleness in their lives every time they light a cigarette.
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No temptation can ever be measured by the value of its object.
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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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Writing only leads to more writing.
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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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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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Perhaps the only misplaced curiosity is that which persists in trying to find out here, on this side of death, what lies beyond the grave.
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There are no ordinary cats.
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Don't cudgel your brains over my little problems.
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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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Time spent with a cat is never wasted.
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