Talent is long patience.
The great natures which are good, are above everything generous and don't begrudge the giving of themselves.
For a long time now my heart has had its shutters closed, its steps deserted, formerly a tumultuous hotel, but now empty and echoing like a great empty tomb.
To see one's name in print! Some people commit a crime for no other reason.
The artist must be in his work as God is in creation, invisible and all-powerful; one must sense him everywhere but never see him.
But, in her life, nothing was going to happen. Such was the will of God! The future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted.
Doesn't it seem to you," asked Madame Bovary, "that the mind moves more freely in the presence of that boundless expanse, that the sight of it elevates the soul and gives rise to thoughts of the infinite and the ideal?
She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.
Talent is a long patience, and originality an effort of will and intense observation.
What a heavy oar the pen is, and what a strong current ideas are to row in!
Abstraction can provide stumbling blocks for people of strange intelligence.
Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry.
In my view, the novelist has no right to express his opinions on the things of this world. In creating, he must imitate God: do his job and then shut up.
On certain occasions art can shake very ordinary spirits, and whole worlds can be revealed by its clumsiest interpreters.
She was as sated with him as he was tired of her. Emma had rediscovered in adultery all the banality of marriage.
A friend who dies, it's something of you who dies.
One day, I shall explode like an artillery shell and all my bits will be found on the writing table.
I’m dazzled by your facility. In ten days you’ll have written six stories! I don’t understand it… I’m like one of those old aqueducts: there’s so much rubbish cogging up the banks of my thought that it flows slowly, and only spills from the end of my pen drop by drop.
Boredom, that silent spider, was spinning its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.
Style is as much under the words as in the words. It is as much the soul as it is the flesh of a work.
Snicker on hearing his name: 'the gentleman who thinks we are descended from the apes.'
And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.
[T]he truth is that fullness of soul can sometimes overflow in utter vapidity of language, for none of us can ever express the exact measure of his needs or his thoughts or his sorrows; and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.
I like prostitution. My heart has never failed to pound at the sight of one of those provocatively dressed women walking in the rain under the gaslamps, just as the sight of monks in their robes and girdles touches some ascetic, hidden corner of my soul.
Criticism occupies the lowest place in the literary hierarchy: as regards form, almost always; and as regards moral value, incontestably. It comes after rhyming games and acrostics, which at least require a certain inventiveness.
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