I feel torn to pieces by a rage of love.
He was bored now when Emma suddenly began to sob on his breast; and his heart, like the people who can only stand a certain amount of music, became drowsy through indifference to the vibrations of a l...
Having no intercourse with anyone, she lived in the torpid state of a sleep-walker.
Judge the goodness of a book by the energy of the punches it has given you. I believe the greatest characteristic of genius, is, above all, force.
Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her—the opportunity, the courag...
Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to...
Human life is a sad show, undoubtedly; ugly, heavy and complex. Art has no other end, for people of feeling than to conjure away the burden and bitterness.
Success is a consequence and must not be a goal.
On days when it was too hot, they did not leave their room. The dazzling brilliance from outside plastered bars of light between the slats of the blinds. Not a sound in the village. Down below, on the...
I go dreaming into the future, where I see nothing, nothing. I have no plans, no idea, no project, and, what is worse, no ambition. Something – the eternal ‘what’s the use?’ – sets its bronze barrier...
Has it ever happened to you, Léon went on, to come across some vague idea of one's own in a book, some dim image that comes to you from afar, and as the completest expression of your own slightest sen...
And so I will take back up my poor life, so plain and so tranquil, where phrases are adventures and the only flowers I gather are metaphors.
The public wants work which flatters its illusions.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
There is no truth. There is only perception.
Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.
Il en voulait à Emma de cette victoire permanente. Il s'efforçait même à ne pas la chérir; puis, au craquement de ses bottines, il se sentait lâche, comme les ivrognes à la vue des liqueurs fortes.
Emma leek op alle andere maîtresses; en nu de bekoring van het nieuwe langzamerhand als een kledingstuk van haar afgleed, kwam de eentonigheid van de hartstocht bloot, die altijd dezelfde vorm heeft,...
Charles's conversation was as flat as a sidewalk, and everyone's ideas filed along it in their ordinary clothes, exciting no emotion, no laughter, no reverie. He had never been curious, he said, when...
And she felt as though she had been there, on that bench, for an eternity. For an infinity of passion can be contained in one minute, like a crowd in a small space.