Guy de Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant

Guy de
Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant

French Short-Story Writer and Novelist

Author Quotes

Solitude is dangerous for active minds. We need men who can think and can talk, around us. When we are alone for a long time, we people space with phantoms.

A man in love is removed from the list of the living. Devine idiot, not only stupid, but dangerous. Switches, men love me or at least pretend to be any close relationship, first because I get bored, then that becomes suspect, as a rabid dog that may have a crisis. He therefore move in moral quarantine until it heals. Do not forget that. I know very well that you, love is just a kind of lust, while to me it is, instead, a sort of communion of souls, which is not part of the religion of men. You understand the point, and I spirit.

But keep in remembrance, in the coming days, it was more than a memory, was a kind of sense of this unreal and persistent that woman. It seemed that he had taken part in it, her body image kept in his eyes and savor her moral being kept in his heart. Stay obsession with image, as happens sometimes when you spend hours on end with someone full of delight. It says that you are under the spell of a strange famed intimate puzzled, and subtly disturbing because it is full of mystery.

Get black on white.

I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space.

It is the lives we encounter that make life worth living.

Music, this complex and mysterious act, precise as algebra and vague as a dream, this art made out of mathematics and air, is simply the result of the strange properties of a little membrane. If that membrane did not exist, sound would not exist either, since in itself it is merely vibration. Would we be able to detect music without the ear? Of course not. Well, we are surrounded by things whose existence we never suspect, because we lack the organs that would reveal them to us. [Was He Mad?]

Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms.

A sick thought can devour the body's flesh more than fever or consumption.

But no one as yet confessed to such thoughts.

Great minds that are healthy are never considered geniuses, while this sublime qualification is lavished on brains that are often inferior but are slightly touched by madness.

I said, 'If other beings besides us exist on Earth, why didn't we meet them a long time ago?

It was now autumn, and I made ??up my mind to make, Before winter set in, year excursion across Normandy, a country with Which I was not acquainted. It must be born in mind that I Began with Rouen, and for a week I wandered about with enthusiastic admiration, in That picturesque town of the Middle Ages, in That veritable museum of extraordinary Gothic monuments. Well, one afternoon, somewhere about four a 'clock, as I Happened to be passing down year out-of-the-way by-street, in the middle of a deep river flowed Which, black as ink, named the Eau de Robec, my attention directed to Wholly Examining the bizarre and antique Physiognomy of the houses, all of a sudden was attracted by the sight of a series of shops of furniture brokers, one after the other, from door to door along the street. Ah! These brokers had used locality Their Chosen well, sordid These traffickers of old bric-a-brac, in this fantastic alley leading up from That sinister dark stream of water, under the steep overhanging pointed gables of shingle tiled roofs and projecting eaves, Where The weathercocks of the past still creaked overhead. (Who Knows?)

Night was a very different matter. It was dense, thicker than the very walls, and it was empty, so black, so immense that within it you could brush against appalling things and feel roaming and prowling around a strange, mysterious horror.

That was perhaps the only woman I have ever loved ? no ? that I ever should have loved. Ah, well! who can tell? Circumstances rule one. And then ? and then ? all passes.

A strange art ? music ? the most poetic and precise of all the arts, vague as a dream and precise as algebra.

But now he himself asked if he would not be disobeying god. And does not god permit love, since he surrounds it with visible such splendor?

He had a fund of small talk, a pleasant voice, a caressing glance and his moustache was irresistible. Crisp and curly, it curved charmingly over his lip, fair with auburn tints, slightly paler where it bristled at the ends.

I saw a man so burning at the stake, and that inspired me the desire to disappear in the same way. In this way it disappears immediately. Man rushes slow work of nature ... The body is dead, the spirit disappeared.

It was then between one o'clock in the morning and half-past that hour; the sky soon cleared a bit before me, and the lunar crescent peeped out from behind the clouds - that sad crescent of the last quarter of the moon. The crescent of the new moon, that which rises at four or five o'clock in the evening, is clear, bright and silvery; but that which rises after midnight is red, sinister and disquieting; it is the true crescent of the witches' Sabbath: all night-walkers must have remarked the contrast. The first, even when it is as narrow as a silver thread, projects a cheery ray, which rejoices the heart, and casts on the ground sharply defined shadows; while the latter reflects only a mournful glow, so wan that the shadows are bleared and indistinct. (Who Knows?)

No one looked at her, no one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed up in the scorn of these virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed, then rejected her as a thing useless and unclean.

The count uttered several rather risky witticisms, but so tactfully were they said that his audience could not help smiling. Loiseau in turn made some considerably broader jokes, but no one took offence; and the thought expressed with such brutal directness by his wife was uppermost in the minds of all: "Since it's the girl's trade, why should she refuse this man more than another?"

Again I waited - oh, but for a brief interval: I presently distinguished an extraordinary shuffling and stamping of feet on the staircase, on the floors, on the carpets; a sound not only of boots and' human shoes, but tapping of crutches, of crutches of wood, and knocking of iron crutches which clanged like cymbals. And behold, I perceived, all at once, on the door sill, an armchair, my large reading chair, which came waddling out. Right into the garden it went, followed by others, the chairs of my drawing room, then the comfortable settee, crawling like crocodiles on their short legs; next, all my chairs bounding like goats, and the small footstools which followed like rabbits. Oh, what a hideous surprise! I stepped back behind the shrubs, where I stayed, crouched and watching this procession of my furniture; for out they all came, one behind the other, quickly or slowly according to their form and weight. My piano - my large grand piano - passed at a canter like a horse, with a faint murmur of music from within; the smallest objects crawled on the gravel like ants - brushes, glasses and cups glistening in the rays of the moon with phosphorescence like glowworms. The curtains, tablecloths and, draperies wriggled along, with their feelers in the puddles like the cuttlefish in the sea. Suddenly I beheld my pet bureau, a rare specimen of the last century, and which contained all my correspondence, all my love letters, the whole history of my heart, an old history of how much I have suffered!

By Jove, it's great! Walk along the streets on some spring morning. The little women, daintily tripping along, seem to blossom out like flowers. What a delightful, charming sight! The dainty perfume of violet is everywhere. The city is gay, and everybody notices the women. By Jove, how tempting They Are In Their light, thin dresses, All which occasionally give one a glimpse of the delicate pink flesh beneath! One saunters along, head up, mind alert, and eyes open. I tell you it's great! You see her in the distance, while still a block away, You Already Know That She is going to please you at closer quarters You can Recognize her by the flower on her hat, the toss of her head, or her gait She approaches, and? you say to yourself: 'Look out, here she is!' You come closer to her and you devour her with your eyes. Is it a young girl running errands for some store, a young woman returning from church, or hastening to see her lover? What do you care? Her well-rounded bosom shows through the thin waist. Oh, If You Could only take her in your arms and fondle and kiss her! Her glance May be timid or bold, her hair light or dark. What difference does it make? She brushes against you, and a cold shiver runs down your spine. Oh, how you wish for her all day! How many of thesis dear creatures have I put this way, and how wildly in love I would have been had I known more intimately them. Have you ever noticed that the ones we would love the most distractedly are Those Whom We never meet to know? Curious, is not it? From time to time we barely catch a glimpse of some woman, the mere sight of whom thrills our senses. But it goes no further. When I think of all the lovely creatures That I have elbowed in the streets of Paris, I fairly rave Who are they Where are they Where can I find 'em again There is a proverb says That All which happiness Often passes our way,.!? I am safe That I have Often Passed Alongside the one Have you Could have caught me like a linnet in the snare of her fresh beauty. - Guy de Maupassant , Selected Short Stories

He stared fixedly at the opposite bank where an angler was fishing, his line perfectly still. All of a sudden the man jerked out of the water a little sliver fish which wriggled at the end of his line. Twisting and turning it this way and that he tried to extract his hook, but in vain. Losing patience he started pulling and, as he did so, tore out the entire bloody gullet of the fish with parts of its intestines attached. Paul shuddered, feeling himself equally torn apart. It seemed to him that the hook was like his own love and that if he were to tear it out he too would be gutted by a piece of curved wire hooked deep into his essential self at the end of a line held by Madeleine.

Author Picture
First Name
Guy de
Last Name
Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
Birth Date
Death Date

French Short-Story Writer and Novelist