Me and my books in the same apartment, like a gherkin in its vinegar.

Doesn't it seem to you," asked Madame Bovary, "that the mind moves more freely in the presence of that boundless expanse, that the sight of it elevates the soul and gives rise to thoughts of the infinite and the ideal?

Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.

Writing this book I am like a man playing the piano with lead balls attached to his knuckles.

She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.

Put all your rage and madness into your work and live as orderly a life as possible.

One mustn't look at the abyss, because there is at the bottom an inexpressible charm which attracts us.