By an image we hold on to our lost treasures, but it is the wrenching loss that forms the image, composes, binds the bouquet.
I have found my voice again and the art of using it.
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.
When she raises her eyelids it's as if she were taking off all her clothes.
January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.
It takes time for the absent to assume their true shape in our thoughts.
We only do well the things we like doing.
On this narrow planet, we have only the choice between two unknown worlds. One of them tempts us - ah! what a dream, to live in that! - the other stifles us at the first breath.
Writing only leads to more writing.
The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.
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.
To write is to pour one’s innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one’s hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god which guides it - and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower.
To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one.
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.
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.
Sincerity is not a spontaneous flower nor is modesty either.
Among all the modernized aspects of the most luxurious of industries, the model, a vestige of voluptuous barbarianism, is like some plunder-laden prey. She is the object of unbridled regard, a living bait, the passive realization of an ideal. No other female occupation contains such potent impulses to moral disintegration as this one, applying as it does the outward signs of riches to a poor and beautiful girl.
I believe there are more urgent and honorable occupations than the incomparable waste of time we call suffering.
The faults of husbands are often caused by the excess virtues of their wives.
A few days later, I found my mother beneath the tree, motionless with excitement, her head turned toward the heavens in which she would allow human religions no place.
- 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!
If he's getting married, he's not longer interesting.
My true friends have always given me that supreme proof of devotion, a spontaneous aversion for the man I loved.
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.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: