Everything measurable passes, everything that can be counted has an end. Only three things are infinite: the sky in its stars, the sea in its drops of water, and the heart in its tears. ― Gustave Flaubert, The Letters of Gustave Flaubert, 1830-1857. (Belknap Press: An Imprint of Harvard University Press; First Edition (US) First… Continue reading Gustave Flaubert
There are some memories one does not share. — Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit And Three Other Plays (Vintage, 1955)
Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom. ― Gustave Flaubert, November. (Hesperus Press; Translation edition, February 1, 2005) Originally 1842.
On the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths, And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat: Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet. I will let the wind bathe my bare head. I will not speak, I will have no thoughts: But infinite love will… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
Straight lines go too quickly to appreciate the pleasures of the journey. They rush straight to their target and then die in the very moment of their triumph without having thought, loved, suffered or enjoyed themselves…It is another story with curved lines. The song of the curved line is called happiness. — René Crevel
A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of its complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken… Continue reading Françoise Sagan
Be like the bird, who Halting in his flight On limb too slight Feels it give way beneath him, Yet sings Knowing he hath wings. — Victor Hugo, “The Bird,” Twilight Songs (Les Chants du crépuscule), published in 1835.