Guy de Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant

Guy de
Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
1830
1893

French Short-Story Writer and Novelist

Author Quotes

I told myself everything is a being! The shout that is year passes into the air like an animal entity, since it is born, produces a movement, and is again transformed, in order to die. So the fearful mind that believes in incorporeal beings is not wrong. What are they?

It's not difficult to appear bright, don't worry. The main thing is never to show obvious ignorance of anything. You prevaricate, avoid the difficulty, steer clear of the problem and then catch other people out by using a dictionary. All men are stupid oafs and ignorant nincompoops.

Norbert de Varenne Went on: No, you do not understand me now, But later on Will you remember what I am saying to you at this time. A day comes, and it comes early for Many, When there is year-end to mirth, for behind everything one sees one looks at death. Even You do not understand the word. At your age it Means nothing, at me it is terrible. Yes, one understands it all at once, one does not know how or why, and THEN ITS aspect everything in life changes. For fifteen years I have felt death assail me as if I bore me some gnawing Beast Within. decaying I have felt myself little by little, month by month, hour by hour, like a house crumbling to ruin. Completely Death has disfigured me so that I do not recognize myself. I no longer have anything about me of myself - of the fresh, strong man I was at thirty. Whiten my death I have seen black hairs, and with what skillful and spiteful slowness. firm Death has Taken my skin, my muscles, my teeth, my whole body of old, only leaving me a despairing soul, soon to be Taken too. Every step brings me nearer to death, every movement, His every breath hastens odious work. To breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work, dream, everything we do is to die. To live, in short, is to die. Oh, Will you realize this. If you stop and think for Will you understand the point. What do you Expect? Love? A few more kisses and you Will Be impotent. Then money? For what? Women? Much Fun That Will Be! In order to eat a lot and grow fat and lie awake at night Suffering from gout? And After That? Glory? use What Is That When it does not take the form of love? And After That? Death is always the end. near to death I now see that I want to stretch my arms Often to push it back. It covers the earth and FILLS the universe. I see it everywhere. The insects crushed on the path, the falling leaves, the white hair in a friend's head, rend my heart and cry to me, 'Behold it!' It spoils for me all I do, all I see, all that I eat and drink, all that I love, the bright moonlight, the sunrise, the broad ocean, the noble rivers, and the soft summer evening air to breath so sweet.

The essence of life is the smile of round female bottoms, under the shadow of cosmic boredom.

All was said with due restraint and regard for propriety, the effect heightened now and then by an outburst of forced enthusiasm calculated to excite emulation.

By nature independent, gay, even exuberant, seductively responsive and given to those spontaneous sallies that sparkle in the conversation of certain daughters of Paris who seem to have inhaled since childhood the pungent breath of the boulevards laden with the nightly laughter of audiences leaving theaters, Madame de Burne's five years of bondage had nonetheless endowed her with a singular timidity which mingled oddly with her youthful mettle, a great fear of saying too much, of going to far, along with a fierce yearning for emancipation and a firm resolve never again to compromise her freedom.

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.

Author Picture
First Name
Guy de
Last Name
Maupassant, fully Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
Birth Date
1830
Death Date
1893
Bio

French Short-Story Writer and Novelist