Another thirst had come to him—the thirst for women, for licentious pleasure, and all that Parisian life permitted him to enjoy. He felt somewhat stunned, like a man coming out of a ship, and in the v...
A good sentence in prose should be like a good line in poetry, unchangeable, as rhythmic, as sonorous.
Inteligența lui nu era destul de mare pentru a ajunge pînă la Artă, nici destul de burgheză pentru a viza numai profitul, în așa chip încît, fără să mulțumească pe nimeni, se ruina./ ...son intelligen...
Stupidity is something unshakable nothing attacks it without breaking itself against it it is of the nature of granite, hard and resistant.
One must always hope when one is desperate, and doubt when one hopes.
İnsan, şeytanın yanına yaklaşmasına izin verdi mi, artık iradesi üzerindeki denetimini kaybeder. Gözleri kapanır; iyiyle kötüyü, doğruyla yanlışı ayıramaz olur.
Încă de mică o cuprinsese una din acele iubiri de copil care au în același timp puritatea unei religii și violența unei necesități./ Toute petite, elle s’était prise d’un de ces amours d’enfant qui on...
The clang of the band, letting loose, rang out like a brass kettle rolling downstairs,
Servant, the grand duet in D major, all were for
You forget everything. The hours slip by. You travel in your chair through centuries you seem seem to see before you, your thoughts are caught up in the story, dallying with the details or following t...
Why was it? Who drove you to it?'She replied, 'It had to be, my dear!''Weren't you happy? Is it my fault? I did all I could!''Yes, that is true — you are good — you.
When she was taken too bad she went off quite alone to the sea-shore, so that the customs officer, going his rounds, often found her lying flat on her face, crying on the shingle. Then, after her marr...
What’s improper about it? retorted the clerk. Everybody does it in Paris! It was an irresistible and conclusive argument.
What was it that thus set so far asunder the morning of the day before yesterday and the evening of to-day?
What exasperated her was that Charles seemed to have no notion of her torment. His conviction that he was making her happy struck her as impudent imbecility, his uxorious complacency as ingratitude.
To be simple is no small matter.
Those who were beginning to grow old had an air of youth, while there was something mature in the faces of the young.
Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of vague love wearied her more than great debauchery.
Then she asked herself, Isn’t he in love with someone? Who could it be? …Why, it’s me! All the evidence immediately became clear to her, and her heart leapt.
Then a faintness came over her; she recalled the Viscount who had waltzed with her at Vaubyessard, and his beard exhaled like this air an odour of vanilla and citron, and mechanically she half-closed...