She constantly complained of her nerves, her chest, her liver. The noise of footsteps made her ill; when people left her, solitude became odious to her; if they came back, it was doubtless to see her die.

Gustave Flaubert

Gustave Flaubert

Profession: Novelist
Nationality: French

Some suggestions for you :

One becomes a critic when one cannot be an artist, just as a man becomes a stool pigeon when he cannot be a soldier.

How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.

Earth has its boundaries, but human stupidity is limitless.

This was how they wished they had been: each was creating an ideal into which he was now fitting his past life.

In every parting there comes a moment when the beloved is already no longer with us.

You need a high degree of corruption or a very big heart to love absolutely everything.

There comes a point at which you stop writing and think all the more.

What’s improper about it? retorted the clerk. Everybody does it in Paris! It was an irresistible and conclusive argument.

For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries.

Do not read as children do to enjoy themselves, or, as the ambitious do to educate themselves. No, read to live.

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

By trying to understand everything, everything makes me dream.

And the more he was irritated by her basic personality, the more he was drawn to her by a harsh, bestial sensuality, illusions of a moment, which ended in hate.

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.