The Project Gutenberg eBook ofWidger's Quotations from Project Gutenberg Edition of French Immortals SeriesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Widger's Quotations from Project Gutenberg Edition of French Immortals SeriesEditor: David WidgerRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4001]Most recently updated: December 27, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: This etext was produced by David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WIDGER'S QUOTATIONS FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITION OF FRENCH IMMORTALS SERIES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Widger's Quotations from Project Gutenberg Edition of French Immortals SeriesEditor: David WidgerRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4001]Most recently updated: December 27, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: This etext was produced by David Widger
Title: Widger's Quotations from Project Gutenberg Edition of French Immortals Series
Editor: David Widger
Editor: David Widger
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4001]Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
Credits: This etext was produced by David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WIDGER'S QUOTATIONS FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITION OF FRENCH IMMORTALS SERIES ***
This etext was produced by David Widger Readers acquainted with the Immortals series of the French Academy may wish
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2. Lists of alphabetized one-liners. The editor may be contacted at CONTENTS: (listed in reversed order) Apr 2003 Entire PG Edition of The French Immortals [IM#87][imewk10.txt]4000Apr 2003 Entire An "Attic" Philosopher by Souvestre [IM#86][im86b10.txt]3999Apr 2003 An "Attic" Philosopher by E. Souvestre, v3 [IM#85][im85b10.txt]3998Apr 2003 An "Attic" Philosopher by E. Souvestre, v2 [IM#84][im84b10.txt]3997Apr 2003 An "Attic" Philosopher by E. Souvestre, v1 [IM#83][im83b10.txt]3996 Apr 2003 The Entire Madame Chrysantheme by Loti [IM#82][im82b10.txt]3995Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v4 [IM#81][im81b10.txt]3994Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v3 [IM#80][im80b10.txt]3993Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v2 [IM#79][im79b10.txt]3992Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v1 [IM#78][im78b10.txt]3991 Apr 2003 The Entire Conscience by Hector Malot [IM#77][im77b10.txt]3990Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v4 [IM#76][im76b10.txt]3989Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v3 [IM#75][im75b10.txt]3988Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v2 [IM#74][im74b10.txt]3987Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v1 [IM#73][im73b10.txt]3986 Apr 2003 The Entire Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard [IM#72][im72b10.txt]3885Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v4 [IM#71][im71b10.txt]3984Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v3 [IM#70][im70b10.txt]3983Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v2 [IM#69][im69b10.txt]3982Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v1 [IM#68][im68b10.txt]3981 Apr 2003 The Entire Fromont and Risler, by Daudet [IM#67][im67b10.txt]3980Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v4 [IM#66][im66b10.txt]3979Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v3 [IM#65][im65b10.txt]3978Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v2 [IM#64][im64b10.txt]3977Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v1 [IM#63][im63b10.txt]3976 Apr 2003 Entire The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin [IM#62][im62b10.txt]3975Apr 2003 The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin, v3 [IM#61][im61b10.txt]3974Apr 2003 The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin, v2 [IM#60][im60b10.txt]3973Apr 2003 The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin, v1 [IM#59][im59b10.txt]3972 Apr 2003 Entire Jacqueline by Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) [IM#58][im58b10.txt]3971Apr 2003 Jacqueline by Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc), v3 [IM#57][im57b10.txt]3970Apr 2003 Jacqueline by Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc), v2 [IM#56][im56b10.txt]3969Apr 2003 Jacqueline by Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc), v1 [IM#55][im55b10.txt]3968 Apr 2003 Entire Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget [IM#54][im54b10.txt]3967Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v4 [IM#53][im53b10.txt]3966Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v3 [IM#52][im52b10.txt]3965Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v2 [IM#51][im51b10.txt]3964Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v1 [IM#50][im50b10.txt]3963 Apr 2003 Entire Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee [IM#49][im49b10.txt]3962Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v4 [IM#48][im48b10.txt]3961Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v3 [IM#47][im47b10.txt]3960Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v2 [IM#46][im46b10.txt]3959Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v1 [IM#45][im45b10.txt]3958 Apr 2003 Entire L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy [IM#44][im44b10.txt]3957Apr 2003 L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy, v3 [IM#43][im43b10.txt]3956Apr 2003 L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy, v2 [IM#42][im42b10.txt]3955Apr 2003 L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy, v1 [IM#41][im41b10.txt]3954 Apr 2003 The Entire Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny [IM#40][im40b10.txt]3953Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v6 [IM#39][im39b10.txt]3952Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v5 [IM#38][im38b10.txt]3951Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v4 [IM#37][im37b10.txt]3950Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v3 [IM#36][im36b10.txt]3949Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v2 [IM#35][im35b10.txt]3948Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v1 [IM#34][im34b10.txt]3947 Apr 2003 Entire Monsieur de Camors by Oct. Feuillet [IM#33][im33b10.txt]3946Apr 2003 Monsieur de Camors by Octave Feuillet, v3 [IM#32][im32b10.txt]3945Apr 2003 Monsieur de Camors by Octave Feuillet, v2 [IM#31][im31b10.txt]3944Apr 2003 Monsieur de Camors by Octave Feuillet, v1 [IM#30][im30b10.txt]3943 Apr 2003 Entire Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset[IM#29][im29b10.txt]3942Apr 2003 Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset, v3 [IM#28][im28b10.txt]3941Apr 2003 Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset, v2 [IM#27][im27b10.txt]3940Apr 2003 Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset, v1 [IM#26][im26b10.txt]3939 Apr 2003 Entire A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet [IM#25][im25b10.txt]3938Apr 2003 A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet, v3 [IM#24][im24b10.txt]3937Apr 2003 A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet, v2 [IM#23][im23b10.txt]3936Apr 2003 A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet, v1 [IM#22][im22b10.txt]3935 Apr 2003 The Entire Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa [IM#21][im21b10.txt]3934Apr 2003 Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa, v3 [IM#20][im20b10.txt]3933Apr 2003 Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa, v2 [IM#19][im19b10.txt]3932Apr 2003 Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa, v1 [IM#18][im18b10.txt]3931 Apr 2003 The Entire Prince Zilah by Jules Claretie [IM#17][im17b10.txt]3930Apr 2003 Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie, v3 [IM#16][im16b10.txt]3929Apr 2003 Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie, v2 [IM#15][im15b10.txt]3928Apr 2003 Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie, v1 [IM#14][im14b10.txt]3927 Apr 2003 The Entire MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz [IM#13][im13b10.txt]3926Apr 2003 MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz, v3 [IM#12][im12b10.txt]3925Apr 2003 MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz, v2 [IM#11][im11b10.txt]3924Apr 2003 MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz, v1 [IM#10][im10b10.txt]3923 Apr 2003 Entire The Red Lily, by Anatole France [IM#09][im09b10.txt]3922Apr 2003 The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v3 [IM#08][im08b10.txt]3921Apr 2003 The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v2 [IM#07][im07b10.txt]3920Apr 2003 The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v1 [IM#06][im06b10.txt]3919 Apr 2003 The Entire Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet [IM#05][im05b10.txt]3918Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v4 [IM#04][im04b10.txt]3917Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v3 [IM#03][im03b10.txt]3916Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v2 [IM#02][im02b10.txt]3915Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v1 [IM#01][im01b10.txt]3914 The editor-in-chief of the Maison Mazarin—a man of letters who cherishes
an enthusiastic yet discriminating love for the literary and artistic
glories of France—formed within the last two pears the great project of
collecting and presenting to the vast numbers of intelligent readers of
whom New World boasts a series of those great and undying romances which,
since 1784, have received the crown of merit awarded by the French
Academy—that coveted assurance of immortality in letters and in art. In the presentation of this serious enterprise for the criticism and
official sanction of The Academy, 'en seance', was included a request
that, if possible, the task of writing a preface to the series should be
undertaken by me. Official sanction having been bestowed upon the plan,
I, as the accredited officer of the French Academy, convey to you its
hearty appreciation, endorsement, and sympathy with a project so nobly
artistic. It is also my duty, privilege, and pleasure to point out, at
the request of my brethren, the peculiar importance and lasting value of
this series to all who would know the inner life of a people whose
greatness no turns of fortune have been able to diminish. In the last hundred years France has experienced the most terrible
vicissitudes, but, vanquished or victorious, triumphant or abased, never
has she lost her peculiar gift of attracting the curiosity of the world.
She interests every living being, and even those who do not love her
desire to know her. To this peculiar attraction which radiates from her,
artists and men of letters can well bear witness, since it is to
literature and to the arts, before all, that France owes such living and
lasting power. In every quarter of the civilized world there are
distinguished writers, painters, and eminent musicians, but in France
they exist in greater numbers than elsewhere. Moreover, it is
universally conceded that French writers and artists have this particular
and praiseworthy quality: they are most accessible to people of other
countries. Without losing their national characteristics, they possess
the happy gift of universality. To speak of letters alone: the books
that Frenchmen write are read, translated, dramatized, and imitated
everywhere; so it is not strange that these books give to foreigners a
desire for a nearer and more intimate acquaintance with France. Men preserve an almost innate habit of resorting to Paris from almost
every quarter of the globe. For many years American visitors have been
more numerous than others, although the journey from the United States is
long and costly. But I am sure that when for the first time they see
Paris—its palaces, its churches, its museums—and visit Versailles,
Fontainebleau, and Chantilly, they do not regret the travail they have
undergone. Meanwhile, however, I ask myself whether such sightseeing is
all that, in coming hither, they wish to accomplish. Intelligent
travellers—and, as a rule, it is the intelligent class that feels the
need of the educative influence of travel—look at our beautiful
monuments, wander through the streets and squares among the crowds that
fill them, and, observing them, I ask myself again: Do not such people
desire to study at closer range these persons who elbow them as they
pass; do they not wish to enter the houses of which they see but the
facades; do they not wish to know how Parisians live and speak and act by
their firesides? But time, alas! is lacking for the formation of those
intimate friendships which would bring this knowledge within their grasp.
French homes are rarely open to birds of passage, and visitors leave us
with regret that they have not been able to see more than the surface of
our civilization or to recognize by experience the note of our inner home
life. How, then, shall this void be filled? Speaking in the first person, the
simplest means appears to be to study those whose profession it is to
describe the society of the time, and primarily, therefore, the works of
dramatic writers, who are supposed to draw a faithful picture of it. So
we go to the theatre, and usually derive keen pleasure therefrom. But is
pleasure all that we expect to find? What we should look for above
everything in a comedy or a drama is a representation, exact as possible,
of the manners and characters of the dramatis persona of the play; and
perhaps the conditions under which the play was written do not allow such
representation. The exact and studied portrayal of a character demands
from the author long preparation, and cannot be accomplished in a few
hours. From, the first scene to the last, each tale must be posed in the
author's mind exactly as it will be proved to be at the end. It is the
author's aim and mission to place completely before his audience the
souls of the "agonists" laying bare the complications of motive, and
throwing into relief the delicate shades of motive that sway them.
Often, too, the play is produced before a numerous audience—an audience
often distrait, always pressed for time, and impatient of the least
delay. Again, the public in general require that they shall be able to
understand without difficulty, and at first thought, the characters the
author seeks to present, making it necessary that these characters be
depicted from their most salient sides—which are too often vulgar and
unattractive. In our comedies and dramas it is not the individual that is drawn, but
the type. Where the individual alone is real, the type is a myth of the
imagination—a pure invention. And invention is the mainspring of the
theatre, which rests purely upon illusion, and does not please us unless
it begins by deceiving us. I believe, then, that if one seeks to know the world exactly as it is,
the theatre does not furnish the means whereby one can pursue the study.
A far better opportunity for knowing the private life of a people is
available through the medium of its great novels. The novelist deals
with each person as an individual. He speaks to his reader at an hour
when the mind is disengaged from worldly affairs, and he can add without
restraint every detail that seems needful to him to complete the rounding
of his story. He can return at will, should he choose, to the source of
the plot he is unfolding, in order that his reader may better understand
him; he can emphasize and dwell upon those details which an audience in a
theatre will not allow. The reader, being at leisure, feels no impatience, for he knows that he
can at any time lay down or take up the book. It is the consciousness of
this privilege that gives him patience, should he encounter a dull page
here or there. He may hasten or delay his reading, according to the
interest he takes in his romance-nay, more, he can return to the earlier
pages, should he need to do so, for a better comprehension of some
obscure point. In proportion as he is attracted and interested by the
romance, and also in the degree of concentration with which he reads it,
does he grasp better the subtleties of the narrative. No shade of
character drawing escapes him. He realizes, with keener appreciation,
the most delicate of human moods, and the novelist is not compelled to
introduce the characters to him, one by one, distinguishing them only by
the most general characteristics, but can describe each of those little
individual idiosyncrasies that contribute to the sum total of a living
personality. When I add that the dramatic author is always to a certain extent a slave
to the public, and must ever seek to please the passing taste of his
time, it will be recognized that he is often, alas! compelled to
sacrifice his artistic leanings to popular caprice-that is, if he has the
natural desire that his generation should applaud him. As a rule, with the theatre-going masses, one person follows the fads or
fancies of others, and individual judgments are too apt to be
irresistibly swayed by current opinion. But the novelist, entirely
independent of his reader, is not compelled to conform himself to the
opinion of any person, or to submit to his caprices. He is absolutely
free to picture society as he sees it, and we therefore can have more
confidence in his descriptions of the customs and characters of the day. It is precisely this view of the case that the editor of the series has
taken, and herein is the raison d'etre of this collection of great French
romances. The choice was not easy to make. That form of literature
called the romance abounds with us. France has always loved it, for
French writers exhibit a curiosity—and I may say an indiscretion—that
is almost charming in the study of customs and morals at large; a quality
that induces them to talk freely of themselves and of their neighbors,
and to set forth fearlessly both the good and the bad in human nature.
In this fascinating phase of literature, France never has produced
greater examples than of late years. In the collection here presented to American readers will be found those
works especially which reveal the intimate side of French social life-
works in which are discussed the moral problems that affect most potently
the life of the world at large. If inquiring spirits seek to learn the
customs and manners of the France of any age, they must look for it among
her crowned romances. They need go back no farther than Ludovic Halevy,
who may be said to open the modern epoch. In the romantic school, on its
historic side, Alfred de Vigny must be looked upon as supreme. De Musset
and Anatole France may be taken as revealing authoritatively the moral
philosophy of nineteenth-century thought. I must not omit to mention the
Jacqueline of Th. Bentzon, and the "Attic" Philosopher of Emile
Souvestre, nor the, great names of Loti, Claretie, Coppe, Bazin, Bourget,
Malot, Droz, De Massa, and last, but not least, our French Dickens,
Alphonse Daudet. I need not add more; the very names of these
"Immortals" suffice to commend the series to readers in all countries. One word in conclusion: America may rest assured that her students of
international literature will find in this series of 'ouvrages couronnes'
all that they may wish to know of France at her own fireside—a knowledge
that too often escapes them, knowledge that embraces not only a faithful
picture of contemporary life in the French provinces, but a living and
exact description of French society in modern times. They may feel
certain that when they have read these romances, they will have sounded
the depths and penetrated into the hidden intimacies of France, not only
as she is, but as she would be known. SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V1[IM#01][im01b10.txt]3914 A man weeps with difficulty before a womanAntagonism to plutocracy and hatred of aristocratsEnough to be nobody's unless I belong to himEven those who do not love her desire to know herFlayed and roasted alive by the criticsHard workers are pitiful loversHe lost his time, his money, his hair, his illusionsHe was very unhappy at being misunderstoodI thought the best means of being loved were to deserve itMen of pleasure remain all their lives mediocre workersMy aunt is jealous of me because I am a man of ideasNegroes, all but monkeys!Patience, should he encounter a dull page here or thereRomanticism still ferments beneath the varnish of NaturalismSacrifice his artistic leanings to popular capriceUnqualified for happinessYou are talking too much about it to be sincere SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V2[IM#02][im02b10.txt]3915 A uniform is the only garb which can hide poverty honorablyForget a dream and accept a realityI don't pay myself with wordsImplacable self-interest which is the law of the worldIn life it is only nonsense that is common-senseIs a man ever poor when he has two arms?Is it by law only that you wish to keep me?Nothing that provokes laughter more than a disappointed loverSuffering is a human law; the world is an arenaThe uncontested power which money bringsWe had taken the dream of a day for eternal happinessWhat is a man who remains useless SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V3[IM#03][im03b10.txt]3916 Because they moved, they thought they were progressingEverywhere was feverish excitement, dissipation, and nullityIt was a relief when they rose from the tableMoney troubles are not mortalOne amuses one's self at the risk of dyingScarcely was one scheme launched when another idea occurredTalk with me sometimes. You will not chatter trivialitiesThey had only one aim, one passion—to enjoy themselvesWithout a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisoner SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V4[IM#04][im04b10.txt]3917 Cowardly in trouble as he had been insolent in prosperityHeed that you lose not in dignity what you gain in revengeShe would have liked the world to be in mourningThe guilty will not feel your blows, but the innocent THE ENTIRE SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET[IM#05][im05b10.txt]3918 A man weeps with difficulty before a womanA uniform is the only garb which can hide poverty honorablyAntagonism to plutocracy and hatred of aristocratsBecause they moved, they thought they were progressingCowardly in trouble as he had been insolent in prosperityEnough to be nobody's unless I belong to himEven those who do not love her desire to know herEverywhere was feverish excitement, dissipation, and nullityFlayed and roasted alive by the criticsForget a dream and accept a realityHard workers are pitiful loversHe lost his time, his money, his hair, his illusionsHe was very unhappy at being misunderstoodHeed that you lose not in dignity what you gain in revengeI thought the best means of being loved were to deserve itI don't pay myself with wordsImplacable self-interest which is the law of the worldIn life it is only nonsense that is common-senseIs a man ever poor when he has two arms?Is it by law only that you wish to keep me?It was a relief when they rose from the tableMen of pleasure remain all their lives mediocre workersMoney troubles are not mortalMy aunt is jealous of me because I am a man of ideasNegroes, all but monkeys!Nothing that provokes laughter more than a disappointed loverOne amuses one's self at the risk of dyingPatience, should he encounter a dull page here or thereRomanticism still ferments beneath the varnish of NaturalismSacrifice his artistic leanings to popular capriceScarcely was one scheme launched when another idea occurredShe would have liked the world to be in mourningSuffering is a human law; the world is an arenaTalk with me sometimes. You will not chatter trivialitiesThe guilty will not feel your blows, but the innocentThe uncontested power which money bringsThey had only one aim, one passion—to enjoy themselvesUnqualified for happinessWe had taken the dream of a day for eternal happinessWhat is a man who remains uselessWithout a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisonerYou are talking too much about it to be sincere THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE, V1[IM#06][im06b10.txt]3919 A hero must be human. Napoleon was humanAnti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhereBrilliancy of a fortune too newCurious to know her face of that dayDo you think that people have not talked about us?Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be aloneFringe which makes an unlovely border to the cityGave value to her affability by not squandering itHe could not imagine that often words are the same as actionsHe does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutesHe is not intelligent enough to doubtHe studied until the last momentHer husband had become quite bearableHis habit of pleasing had prolonged his youthI feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingnessI gave myself to him because he loved meI haven't a taste, I have tastesIt was too late: she did not wish to winKnew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hopeLaughing in every wrinkle of his faceLearn to live without desireLife as a whole is too vast and too remoteLife is made up of just such triflesLife is not a great thingLove was only a brief intoxicationMade life give all it could yieldMiserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the pastNone but fools resisted the currentNot everything is known, but everything is saidOne would think that the wind would put them out: the starsPicturesquely uglyRecesses of her mind which she preferred not to openRelatives whom she did not know and who irritated herShe is happy, since she likes to rememberShe pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in itShould like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel oneSo well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twiceThat if we live the reason is that we hopeThat sort of cold charity which is called altruismThe discouragement which the irreparable givesThe most radical breviary of scepticism since MontaigneThe violent pleasure of losingUmbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skiesWas I not warned enough of the sadness of everything?Whether they know or do not know, they talk THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE, V2[IM#07][im07b10.txt]3920 A woman is frank when she does not lie uselesslyDisappointed her to escape the danger she had fearedDoes not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutalityHe knew now the divine malady of loveI do not desire your friendshipI have known things which I know no moreI wished to spoil our pastImpatient at praise which was not destined for himselfIncapable of conceiving that one might talk without an objectJealous without having the right to be jealousLovers never separate kindlyMagnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proudNobody troubled himself about that originalityOne who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panelSimple people who doubt neither themselves nor othersSuperior men sometimes lack clevernessThe door of one's room opens on the infiniteThe one whom you will love and who will love you will harm youThe past is the only human reality—Everything that is, is pastThere are many grand and strong things which you do not feelThey are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle'To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin formTrying to make Therese admire what she did not knowUnfortunate creature who is the plaything of lifeWhat will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this worldWomen do not always confess it, but it is always their faultYou must take me with my own soul! THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE, V3[IM#08][im08b10.txt]3921 Does one ever possess what one loves?Each was moved with self-pityEverybody knows about that(Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorderI can forget you only when I am with youI have to pay for the happiness you give meI love myself because you love meIdeas they think superior to love—faith, habits, interestsImmobility of timeIt is an error to be in the right too soonIt was torture for her not to be able to rejoin himKissses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despairLet us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judgesLittle that we can do when we are powerfulLove is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beautyNothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive painOne is never kind when one is in loveOne should never leave the one whom one lovesSeemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-millSince she was in love, she had lost prudenceThat absurd and generous fury for ownershipThe politician never should be in advance of circumstancesThe real support of a government is the OppositionThere is nothing good except to ignore and to forgetWe are too happy; we are robbing life ENTIRE THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE[IM#09][im09b10.txt]3922 A woman is frank when she does not lie uselesslyA hero must be human. Napoleon was humanAnti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhereBrilliancy of a fortune too newCurious to know her face of that dayDisappointed her to escape the danger she had fearedDo you think that people have not talked about us?Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutalityDoes one ever possess what one loves?Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be aloneEach was moved with self-pityEverybody knows about thatFringe which makes an unlovely border to the cityGave value to her affability by not squandering itHe could not imagine that often words are the same as actionsHe studied until the last momentHe is not intelligent enough to doubtHe does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutesHe knew now the divine malady of loveHer husband had become quite bearableHis habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth(Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorderI love myself because you love meI can forget you only when I am with youI wished to spoil our pastI feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingnessI have to pay for the happiness you give meI gave myself to him because he loved meI haven't a taste, I have tastesI have known things which I know no moreI do not desire your friendshipIdeas they think superior to love—faith, habits, interestsImmobility of timeImpatient at praise which was not destined for himselfIncapable of conceiving that one might talk without an objectIt was torture for her not to be able to rejoin himIt is an error to be in the right too soonIt was too late: she did not wish to winJealous without having the right to be jealousKissses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despairKnew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hopeLaughing in every wrinkle of his faceLearn to live without desireLet us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judgesLife as a whole is too vast and too remoteLife is made up of just such triflesLife is not a great thingLittle that we can do when we are powerfulLove is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beautyLove was only a brief intoxicationLovers never separate kindlyMade life give all it could yieldMagnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proudMiserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the pastNobody troubled himself about that originalityNone but fools resisted the currentNot everything is known, but everything is saidNothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive painOne would think that the wind would put them out: the starsOne who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panelOne is never kind when one is in loveOne should never leave the one whom one lovesPicturesquely uglyRecesses of her mind which she preferred not to openRelatives whom she did not know and who irritated herSeemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-millShe pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in itShe is happy, since she likes to rememberShould like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel oneSimple people who doubt neither themselves nor othersSince she was in love, she had lost prudenceSo well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twiceSuperior men sometimes lack clevernessThat sort of cold charity which is called altruismThat if we live the reason is that we hopeThat absurd and generous fury for ownershipThe most radical breviary of scepticism since MontaigneThe door of one's room opens on the infiniteThe past is the only human reality — Everything that is, is pastThe one whom you will love and who will love you will harm youThe violent pleasure of losingThe discouragement which the irreparable givesThe real support of a government is the OppositionThe politician never should be in advance of circumstancesThere is nothing good except to ignore and to forgetThere are many grand and strong things which you do not feelThey are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle'To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin formTrying to make Therese admire what she did not knowUmbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skiesUnfortunate creature who is the plaything of lifeWas I not warned enough of the sadness of everything?We are too happy; we are robbing lifeWhat will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this worldWhether they know or do not know, they talkWomen do not always confess it, but it is always their faultYou must take me with my own soul! MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ, V1[IM#10][im10b10.txt]3923 A ripe husband, ready to fall from the treeAnswer "No," but with a little kiss which means "Yes"As regards love, intention and deed are the sameClumsily, blew his nose, to the great relief of his two armsEmotion when one does not share itHearty laughter which men affect to assist digestionHow rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawersHusband who loves you and eats off the same plate is betterI came here for that express purposeIgnorant of everything, undesirous of learning anythingIt is silly to blush under certain circumstancesLove in marriage is, as a rule, too much at his easeRather do not give—make yourself sought afterReckon yourself happy if in your husband you find a loverThere are pious falsehoods which the Church excusesTo be able to smoke a cigar without being sickWhy mankind has chosen to call marriage a man-trap MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ, V2[IM#11][im11b10.txt]3924 But she thinks she is affording you pleasureDo not seek too muchFirst impression is based upon a number of triflesSometimes like to deck the future in the garments of the pastThe heart requires gradual changes MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ, V3[IM#12][im12b10.txt]3925 Affection is catchingAll babies are round, yielding, weak, timid, and softAnd I shall say 'damn it,' for I shall then be grown upHe Would Have Been Forty NowHow many things have not people been proud ofI am not wandering through life, I am marching onI do not accept the hypothesis of a world made for usI would give two summers for a single autumnIn his future arrange laurels for a little crown for your ownIt (science) dreams, too; it supposesLearned to love others by embracing their own childrenLife is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehandedMan is but one of the links of an immense chainRecollection of past dangers to increase the present joyRespect him so that he may respect youShelter himself in the arms of the weak and recover courageThe future promises, it is the present that paysThe future that is rent awayThe recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetimeTheir love requires a returnTies that unite children to parents are unloosedTies which unite parents to children are brokenTo love is a great deal—To know how to love is everythingWe are simple to this degree, that we do not think we areWhen time has softened your grief THE ENTIRE MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ[IM#13][im13b10.txt]3926 A ripe husband, ready to fall from the treeAffection is catchingAll babies are round, yielding, weak, timid, and softAnd I shall say 'damn it,' for I shall then be grown upAnswer "No," but with a little kiss which means "Yes"As regards love, intention and deed are the sameBut she thinks she is affording you pleasureClumsily, blew his nose, to the great relief of his two armsDo not seek too muchEmotion when one does not share itFirst impression is based upon a number of triflesHe Would Have Been Forty NowHearty laughter which men affect to assist digestionHow many things have not people been proud ofHow rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawersHusband who loves you and eats off the same plate is betterI would give two summers for a single autumnI do not accept the hypothesis of a world made for usI came here for that express purposeI am not wandering through life, I am marching onIgnorant of everything, undesirous of learning anythingIn his future arrange laurels for a little crown for your ownIt (science) dreams, too; it supposesIt is silly to blush under certain circumstancesLearned to love others by embracing their own childrenLife is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehandedLove in marriage is, as a rule, too much at his easeMan is but one of the links of an immense chainRather do not give—make yourself sought afterReckon yourself happy if in your husband you find a loverRecollection of past dangers to increase the present joyRespect him so that he may respect youShelter himself in the arms of the weak and recover courageSometimes like to deck the future in the garments of the pastThe heart requires gradual changesThe future that is rent awayThe recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetimeThe future promises, it is the present that paysTheir love requires a returnThere are pious falsehoods which the Church excusesTies that unite children to parents are unloosedTies which unite parents to children are brokenTo be able to smoke a cigar without being sickTo love is a great deal—To know how to love is everythingWe are simple to this degree, that we do not think we areWhen time has softened your griefWhy mankind has chosen to call marriage a man-trap PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE, V1[IM#14][im14b10.txt]3927 A man's life belongs to his duty, and not to his happinessAll defeats have their genesesForeigners are more Parisian than the Parisians themselvesOne of those beings who die, as they have lived, childrenPlaying checkers, that mimic warfare of old menSuperstition which forbids one to proclaim his happinessThe Hungarian was created on horsebackThere were too many discussions, and not enough actionWould not be astonished at anythingYou suffer? Is fate so just as that PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE, V2[IM#15][im15b10.txt]3928 Life is a tempestNervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despairNo answer to make to one who has no right to question meNothing ever astonishes mePoverty brings wrinkles PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE, V3[IM#16][im16b10.txt]3929 An hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobsAnonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongersAt every step the reality splashes you with mudBullets are not necessarily on the side of the rightDoes one ever forget?History is written, not made.I might forgive," said Andras; "but I could not forgetIf well-informed people are to be believeInsanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realizedIt is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothingLet the dead past bury its dead!Man who expects nothing of life except its endingNot only his last love, but his only lovePessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterdaySufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agonyTaken the times as they areUnable to speak, for each word would have been a sobWhat matters it how much we sufferWhy should I read the newspapers?Willingly seek a new sorrow THE ENTIRE PRINCE ZILAH BY JULES CLARETIE[IM#17][im17b10.txt]3930ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: A man's life belongs to his duty, and not to his happinessAll defeats have their genesesAn hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobsAnonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongersAt every step the reality splashes you with mudBullets are not necessarily on the side of the rightDoes one ever forget?Foreigners are more Parisian than the Parisians themselvesHistory is written, not made.I might forgive," said Andras; "but I could not forgetIf well-informed people are to be believeInsanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realizedIt is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothingLet the dead past bury its dead!Life is a tempestMan who expects nothing of life except its endingNervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despairNo answer to make to one who has no right to question meNot only his last love, but his only loveNothing ever astonishes meOne of those beings who die, as they have lived, childrenPessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterdayPlaying checkers, that mimic warfare of old menPoverty brings wrinklesSufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agonySuperstition which forbids one to proclaim his happinessTaken the times as they areThe Hungarian was created on horsebackThere were too many discussions, and not enough actionUnable to speak, for each word would have been a sobWhat matters it how much we sufferWhy should I read the newspapers?Willingly seek a new sorrowWould not be astonished at anythingYou suffer? Is fate so just as that
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