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Gustave Flaubert Quotes

Page 3 of 4
Gustave Flaubert
December 12, 1821 - May 8, 1880
Nationality: French
Category: Novelist
Subcategory: French Novelist

A memory is a beautiful thing, it's almost a desire that you miss.


I love my work with a frenetic and perverse love, as an ascetic loves the hair shirt which scratches his belly.


Madame Bovary is myself.


Judge the goodness of a book by the energy of the punches it has given you. I believe the greatest characteristic of genius, is, above all, force.


Art requires neither complaisance nor politeness; nothing but faith, faith and freedom.


Style is as much under the words as in the words. It is as much the soul as it is the flesh of a work.


It seems to me that I have always existed and that I possess memories that date back to the Pharaohs.


The better a work is, the more it attracts criticism; it is like the fleas who rush to jump on white linens.


The whole dream of democracy is to raise the proletarian to the level of stupidity attained by the bourgeois.


Oh, if I had been loved at the age of seventeen, what an idiot I would be today. Happiness is like smallpox: if you catch it too soon, it can completely ruin your constitution.


The deplorable mania of doubt exhausts me. I doubt about everything, even my doubts.


The cult of art gives pride; one never has too much of it.


Success is a consequence and must not be a goal.


I am a man-pen. I feel through the pen, because of the pen.


I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.


Stupidity is something unshakable; nothing attacks it without breaking itself against it; it is of the nature of granite, hard and resistant.


The most glorious moments in your life are not the so-called days of success, but rather those days when out of dejection and despair you feel rise in you a challenge to life, and the promise of future accomplishments.


The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.


The true poet for me is a priest. As soon as he dons the cassock, he must leave his family.


What is the beautiful, if not the impossible.


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