Sick, irritated, and the prey to a thousand discomforts, I go on with my labor like a true workingman, who, with sleeves rolled up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at his anvil, not caring whether it rains or blows, hails or thunders.

What is beautiful is moral, that is all there is to it.

Madame Bovary is myself.

There are two infinities that confuse me: the one in my soul devours me; the one around me will crush me

For a long time now my heart has had its shutters closed, its steps deserted, formerly a tumultuous hotel, but now empty and echoing like a great empty tomb.

One arrives at style only with atrocious effort, with fanatical and devoted stubbornness.

The finest works of art are those in which there is the least matter. The closer expression comes to thought, the more the word clings to the idea and disappears, the more beautiful the work of art.