French Short-Story Writer and Novelist
Guy de Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
French Short-Story Writer and Novelist
He walked on slowly, dreaming aloud, forgetting That He Almost had a listener: And no one ever returns - never. The model of the statue May be preserved, But my body, my making, my thoughts, my desires Will never reappear again. And yet millions of Beings Will Be born with a nose, eyes, forehead, cheeks, and mouth like me, and Also a soul like me, without my ever returning, without anything Even Recognizable of me appearing in countless different These Beings. What can we cling to? What can we believe in? All religions are stupid, with childish morality and their egotistical their promises, monstrously absurd. Certain Death is alone.
I told myself: 'I am surrounded by unknown things.' I imagined man without ears, suspecting the existence of sound as we suspect so many hidden mysteries, man noting acoustic phenomena whose nature and provenance he cannot determine. And I grew afraid of everything around me ? afraid of the air, afraid of the night. From the moment we can know almost nothing, and from the moment that everything is limitless, what remains? Does emptiness actually not exist? What does exist in this apparent emptiness?
Killing is decreed by law but nature loves eternal youth. Whatever she does, however unconscious and unfeeling the act, she seems to cry out: 'Quick! Quick! Quick!' And the more she destroys, the more she is renewed.
One sometimes weeps over one's illusions with as much bitterness as over a death.
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
And taking her friend?s hand, she put it on her breast, on that firm round covering of a woman?s heart which the male often finds so satisfying that he makes no attempt to find what lies beneath it.
Certainly solitude is dangerous for active minds. We require around us men who can think and talk. When we are alone for a long time, we people space with phantoms.
How fathomless the mystery of the Unseen is! We cannot plumb its depths with our feeble senses - with eyes which cannot see the infinitely small or the infinitely great, nor anything too close or too distant, such as the beings who live on a star or the creatures which live in a drop of water... with ears that deceive us by converting vibrations of the air into tones that we can hear, for they are sprites which miraculously change movement into sound, a metamorphosis which gives birth to harmonies which turn the silent agitation of nature into song... with our sense of smell, which is poorer than any dog's... with our sense of taste, which is barely capable of detecting the age of a wine! Ah! If we had other senses which would work other miracles for us, how many more things would we not discover around us!
I took the book from him reverently, and I gazed at these forms incomprehensible to me, but which revealed the immortal thoughts of the greatest shatterer of dreams who had ever dwelt on earth.
Legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother.
Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
The great artists are those who impose their personal vision upon humanity.
And within, besides, were, above all, certain photographs! (Who Knows?)
Charming, charming, 'the lawyer said at intervals.
How weak our mind is; how quickly it is terrified and unbalanced as soon as we are confronted with a small, incomprehensible fact. Instead of dismissing the problem with: "We do not understand because we cannot find the cause," we immediately imagine terrible mysteries and supernatural powers.
I tried to reason with me, I felt the very strong desire not to be afraid, but there was something in me that my will, and that something else was afraid. I wondered what I could fear, my my my brave coward taunted me, and never as good as the day I entered the opposition of two people who we are, one wanting the other resistant and everyone taking turns.
Let them respect my convictions, and I will respect theirs!
Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched.
The kiss itself is immortal. It travels from lip to lip, century to century, from age to age. Men and women garner these kisses, offer them to others and then die in turn.
Anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of enemies.
Conversation. What is it? A Mystery! It's the art of never seeming bored, of touching everything with interest, of pleasing with trifles, of being fascinating with nothing at all. How do we define this lively darting about with words, of hitting them back and forth, this sort of brief smile of ideas which should be conversation?
I did not love her; I did not even know her. And for all that, I was touched and conquered. I wanted to save her, to sacrifice myself for her, to commit a thousand follies! Strange thing! How does it happen that the presence of a woman overwhelms us so? Is it the power of her grace which enfolds us? Is it the seduction of her beauty and youth, which intoxicates one like wine? Is it not rather the touch of Love, of Love the Mysterious, who seeks constantly to unite two beings, who tries his strength the instant he has put a man and a woman face to face?
I was going to open his mouth and addressed the girl, when someone touched my shoulder. I turned, startled, and saw an ordinary-looking man, young or old, who looked at me sadly. - I want to talk, he said. I made ??a face he saw no doubt, for he added: - It is important. I got up and followed him to the other end of the boat: - 'Sir,' he said, when winter approaches with the cold, rain and snow, your doctor tells you every day: Keep up the horny feet, keep you chills, colds, bronchitis, pleurisy. So you take every precaution, you wear flannel, thick coat, big shoes, which does not prevent you always spend two months in bed. But when spring comes with its leaves and flowers, warm breezes and enervating, his exhalations fields who bring you vague unrest, tenderness without cause, there is no one who comes to say, Sir, beware Love! It is lurking everywhere you lurks on every corner, all his tricks are strained, all sharp weapons, all its sham prepared! Beware of love! ... Beware of love! It is more dangerous than the common cold, bronchitis and pleurisy! He does not forgive, and is committed to everyone nonsense irreparable. Yes, sir, I say that every year, the government should put on the walls of large posters with the words: Back in the spring. French citizens, beware of love, the same is written on the door of the house: Beware of the paint! - Well, since the government does not do it, I replaced, and I tell you: Beware of love, he is telling you pinch, and it is my duty to warn you as warns, Russia, one from whose nose freezes. I stood amazed at this particular strange, and taking a dignified: Well, sir, you seem to meddle in what does not concern you much. He made ??a sudden movement, and said: - Oh! sir! sir! if I see a man will drown in a dangerous place, so it must be left to perish?
Let us protest and let us be angry, let us be indignant, or let us be enthusiastic, Schopenhauer has marked humanity with the seal of his disdain and of his disenchantment.
Put black on white.