Only three things are infinite. The sky in its stars, the sea in its drops of water, and the heart in its… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
“The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding - places, full of drawers fitted into each… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
You need a high degree of corruption or a very big heart to love absolutely everything — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
He was bored now when Emma suddenly began to sob on his breast; and his heart, like the people who can only… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
The style, which is something I take to heart, is getting on my nerves horribly. It frustrates and torments me. I have… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings,--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
After the pain of this disappointment her heart once more stood empty, and the succession of identical days began again. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
For a long time now my heart has had its shutters closed, its steps deserted, formerly a tumultuous hotel, but now empty… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
Years passed; and he endured the idleness of his intelligence and the inertia of his heart. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
You forget everything. The hours slip by. You travel in your chair through centuries you seem seem to see before you, your… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
“Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
Boredom, that silent spider, was spinning its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
… Her heart remained empty once more, and the procession of days all alike began again. So they were going to follow… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
As you get older, the heart shed its leaves like a tree. You cannot hold out against certain winds. Each day tears… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
“She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
•"for her, life was as cold as an attic with a window looking to the north, and ennui, like a spider, was… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
Each dream finds at last its form; there is a drink for every thirst, and love for every heart. And there is… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
I like prostitution. My heart has never failed to pound at the sight of one of those provocatively dressed women walking in… — 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 Image
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 Image
“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 Image
Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
“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 Image
When you reduce a woman to writing, she makes you think of a thousand other women — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
A superhuman will is needed in order to write, and I am only a man. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
The writer must wade into life as into the sea, but only up to the navel. — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
