Alas! It seems to me that when one is as good as this at dissecting children who are to born, one can’t stiffen up enough to create them.

Is it not time to cry that the blind shall see, the deaf hear, the lame walk? But that which fanaticism formerly promised to its elect, science now accomplishes for all men.

I go from exasperation to a state of collapse, then I recover and go from prostration to Fury, so that my average state is one of being annoyed

Poetry is as exact a science as geometry

The artist must be in his work like God in his Creation, invisible and all-powerful, so that he is felt everywhere but not seen.

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.

As you get older, the heart shed its leaves like a tree. You cannot hold out against certain winds. Each day tears away a few more leaves; and then there are the storms that break...

What wretched poverty of language! To compare stars to diamonds!

Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blending with the fiction, playing with the details, follows the outline of the adventures. It mingles with the characters, and it seems as if...

Ils en conclurent que la syntaxe est une fantaisie et la grammaire une illusion.

He seriously thought that there is less harm in killing a man than producing a child: in the first case you are relieving someone of life, not his whole life but a half or a...

A man is a critic when he cannot be an artist, in the same way that a man becomes an informer when he cannot be a soldier

Exuberance is better than taste.

I believe that if one always looked at the skies, one would end up with wings.

I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

The morality of art consists, for everyone, in the side that flatters its own interests. People do not like literature.

An infinity of passion can be contained in one minute, like a crowd in a small space.

Charles went to kiss her shoulder.-Leave me alone! she said, you’re creasing my dress.

Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.

Exuberance is better than taste

Madame Bovary is myself.

Quanto a Emma, non si chiedeva se lo amasse. Ella credeva che l’amore dovesse arrivare all’improvviso, con fragori e folgori; uragano dei cieli che cade sulla vita, la sconvolge, strappa via le volontà come foglie,...

Come, let’s be calm: no one incapable of restraint was ever a writer.

From time to time, I open a newspaper. Things seem to be proceeding at a dizzying rate. We are dancing not on the edge of a volcano, but on the wooden seat of a latrine,...

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...

When will someone write from the point of view of a joke, that is to say theway God sees events from above?

Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.

By dint of railing at idiots you run the risk of becoming idiotic yourself

The author, in his work, must be like God in the Universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere.

The artist, to my way of thinking, is a monstrosity, something outside nature.

To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost.

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...

Everyone, either from modesty or egotism, hides away the best and most delicate of his soul’s possessions; to gain the esteem of others, we must only ever show our ugliest sides; this is how we...

At last she sighed.”But the most wretched thing — is it not? — is to drag out, as I do, a useless existence. If our pains were only of some use to someone, we should...

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 courage.

Human speech is like a cracked cauldron on which we bang out tunes that make bears dance, when what we want is to move the stars to pity

Here is true immorality: ignorance and stupidity; the devil is nothing but this. His name is Legion.

The better a work is, the more it attracts criticism; it is like the fleas who rush to jump on white linens.

An author in his book must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere.

I refuse to consider Art a drain-pipe for passion, a kind of chamberpot, a slightly more elegant substitute for gossip and confidences. No, no! Genuine poetry is not the scum of the heart.

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.

Talent is a long patience, and originality an effort of will and intense observation.

Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a monstrosity, something outside of nature.

I maintain that ideas are events. It is more difficult to make them interesting, I know, but if you fail the style is at fault.

Oh, if I had been loved at the age of seventeen, what an idiot I would be today. Happiness is like smallpox: if you catch it too soon, it can completely ruin your constitution.

Never have things of the spirit counted for so little. Never has hatred for everything great been so manifest – disdain for beauty, execration of literature. I have always tried to live in an ivory...

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds – like those horses that...

The sight of so many ruins destroys any desire to build shanties; all this ancient dust makes one indifferent to fame.

Have you really not noticed, then, that here of all places, in this private, personal solitude that surrounds me, I have turned to you? All the memories of my youth speak to me as I...

Speech is a rolling-mill that always thins out the sentiment.