“For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries.” — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
As for the piano, the faster her fingers flew over it, the more he marveled. She struck the keys with aplomb and ran from… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
“When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
“But her life was as cold as an attic facing north; and boredom, like a silent spider, was weaving its web in the shadows,… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
When you reduce a woman to writing, she makes you think of a thousand other women — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
The writer must wade into life as into the sea, but only up to the navel. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
One's existence should be in two parts: one should live like a bourgeois and think like a demigod. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
Emma was no asleep, she was pretending to be asleep; and, while he was dozing off at her side, she lay awake, dreaming other… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share
