Remembering the ball became for Emma a daily occupation. Every time Wednesday came round, she told herself when she woke up: 'Ah! One week ago...two weeks ago...three weeks ago, I was there!' And, little by little, in her memory, the faces all blurred together; she forgot the tunes of the quadrilles; no longer could she so clearly picture the liveries and the rooms; some details disappeared, but the yearning remained.

The most important quality of art and its aim is illusion; emotion, which is often obtained by certain sacrifices of poetic detail, is something else entirely and of an inferior order.

Life must be a constant education; one must learn everything, from speaking to dying.

But some day sooner or later our passion would have cooled - inevitably - it's the way with everything human.

A good sentence in prose should be like a good line in poetry, unchangeable, as rhythmic, as sonorous.

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

Of all lies, art is the least untrue.