She was not happy--she never had been. Whence came this insufficiency in life--this instantaneous turning to decay of everything on which she leaned? But if there were somewhere a being strong and bea...
One becomes a critic when one cannot be an artist, just as a man becomes a stool pigeon when he cannot be a soldier.
Je suis né avec le désir de mourir.
For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries.
Elle souhaitait à la fois mourir et habiter Paris.
El genio lo da Dios, pero el talento es cosa nuestra; con una inteligencia recta, amor a lo que se hace y una paciencia sin desfallecimientos, se llega a tenerlo.
Doubt … is an illness that comes from knowledge and leads to madness.
Cela rend modeste de voyager. On voit quelle petite place on occupe dans le monde.
Because lascivious or venal lips had murmured the same words to him, he now had little belief in their sincerity when he heard them from Emma; they should be taken with a grain of salt, he thought, be...
Avant qu'elle se marîat, elle avait cru avoir de l'amour; mais le bonheur qui aurait dû résulter, de cet amour n'étant pas venu, il fallait qu'elle se fut trompée, songeait-elle. Et Emma, cherchait à...
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.
Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.
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.
… Her heart remained empty once more, and the procession of days all alike began again. So they were going to follow one another, like this, in line, always identical, innumerable, bringing nothing!
Privea spre cer cu ochi plini de blesteme; dar nici măcar o frunză nu se clinti din această pricină.
N’aimait la mer qu’à cause de ses tempêtes, et
A demand for money being, of all the winds that blow upon love, the coldest and most destructive.
Zij haatte niemand meer; een wemelend halfduister daalde neer over haar brein, en van alle aardse klanken hoorde Emma alleen nog de gestadige klacht van dit arme hart, zacht en vaag, als de laatste kl...
You ask me whether the Orient is up to what I imagined it to be. Yes, it is; and more than that, it extends far beyond the narrow idea I had of it. I have found, clearly delineated, everything that wa...
With a little more time, patience, and hard work, and above all with a more sensitive taste for the formal aspects of arts, he would have managed to write mediocre poetry, good enough for a lady’s alb...