And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
My God, this novel makes me break out in a cold sweat! Do you know how much I've written in five months,… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
It is a delicious thing to write, to be no longer yourself but to move in an entire universe of your own… — Gustave Flaubert Copy Share Image
What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening at the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows… — 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
Since you are now studying geometry and trigonometry, I will give you a problem. A ship sails the ocean. It left Boston… — 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
