Every wave is a water sprite who swims in the current, each current is a path which snakes towards my palace, and my palace is fluidly built at the bottom of the lake, in the triangle of earth, fire and water.
EMILE ZOLACivilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest.
More Emile Zola Quotes
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Governments are suspicious of literature because it is a force that eludes them.
EMILE ZOLA -
They talked so, with secret hearts, without needing words, talking of other things. They could have suddenly continued their confessions aloud, without ceasing to understand each other.
EMILE ZOLA -
How evil life must be if it were indeed necessary that such imploring cries, such cries of physical and moral wretchedness, should ever and ever ascend to heaven!
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She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself.
EMILE ZOLA -
The conclusion does not belong to the artist.
EMILE ZOLA -
There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.
EMILE ZOLA -
In Paris, everything’s for sale: wise virgins, foolish virgins, truth and lies, tears and smiles.
EMILE ZOLA -
The camembert with its venison scent defeats the Marolles and Limbourg dull smells; It spreads its exhalation, smothering the other scents under its surprising breath abundance.
EMILE ZOLA -
Did not one spend the first half of one’s days in dreams of happiness and the second half in regrets and terrors?
EMILE ZOLA -
The only basis for living is believing in life, loving it, and applying the whole force of one’s intellect to know it better.
EMILE ZOLA -
Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.
EMILE ZOLA -
I am an artist. I am here to live out loud.
EMILE ZOLA -
Everything is only a dream.
EMILE ZOLA -
It is not necessary that one should humble oneself to deserve assistance, it is sufficient that one should suffer.
EMILE ZOLA -
They dared not peer down into their own natures, down into the feverish confusion that filled their minds with a kind of dense, acrid mist.
EMILE ZOLA