Poets and men of action differ: the former yield to their feelings in order to reproduce them in lively colors, and therefore judge only ex post facto; the latter feel and judge at one and the same time.
He's got his dog trained so that it only does it on newspapers. The trouble is it does it when he's reading the blasted things.
Nothing about me surprises me.
In painting, you can suddenly come upon something so huge that no-one can deal with it.
In smart society men are jealous of one another after the fashion of women.
There are moments in life when all we can bear is the sense that our friend is near us; our wounds would wince at the touch of consoling words, that would reveal the depths of our pain.
There are no principles; there are only events. There is no good and bad, there are only circumstances.
I'm a great poet. I don't put my poems on paper: they consist of actions and feelings.
All human beings go through a previous life... Who knows how many fleshly forms the heir of heaven occupies before he can be brought to understand the value of that silence and solitude of spiritual worlds?
Suffering predisposes the mind to devoutness; and most young girls, prompted by instinctive tenderness, lean towards mysticism, the obscurer side of religion.
Does not any limit imposed upon one inspire a desire to go beyond it? Does not our keenest suffering arise when our free will is crossed?
Thought is the only treasure that God sets outside all power and keeps to serve as a secret link among the unhappy.
No hawk swooping down upon his prey, no stag improvising new detours by which to trick the huntsman, no dog scenting game from afar is comparable in speed to the celerity of a salesman when he gets wind a deal, to his skill in tripping up or forestalling a rival, and to the art with which he sniffs out and discovers a possible sale.
When an intelligent man reaches the point of inviting self-explanation and offers surrendering the key to his heart, he is assuredly riding a drunken horse.
The human heart may find here and there a resting-place short of the highest height of affection, but we seldom stop in the steep, downward slope of hatred.
The wounds of self-love turn incurable when the oxide of self-love gets into them.
He hesitated till the last moment, but finally dropped them in the box, saying, "I shall win!"--the cry of a gambler, the cry of the great general, the compulsive cry that has ruined more men than it has ever saved.
And he, like many jaded people, had few pleasures left in life save good food and drink.
My further advice on your relations to women is based upon that other motto of chivalry, "Serve all, love one."
Imagination helps the realism of every detail, and only sees the beauties of the work.
What moralists describe as the mysteries of the human heart are solely the deceiving thoughts, the spontaneous impulses of self-regard. The sudden changes in character, about which so much has been said, are instinctive calculations for the furtherance of our own pleasures. Seeing himself now in his fine clothes, his new gloves and shoes, Eugène de Rastignac forgot his noble resolve. Youth, when it swerves toward wrong, dares not look in the mirror of conscience; maturity has already seen itself there. That is the whole difference between the two phases of life.
We flew back home like swallows. 'Is it happiness that makes us so light?' Agathe asked.
Where some one else's welfare is concerned, a young girl becomes as ingenious as a thief. Guileless where she herself is in question, and full of foresight for me,-she is like a heavenly angel forgiving the strange incomprehensible sins of earth.
When one has no particular talent for anything, one takes to the pen.
For young people always begin by loving exaggeration, that infirmity of noble minds.
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