A woman who thinks she is intelligent demands the same rights as man. An intelligent woman gives up.
SIDONIE GABRIELLE COLETTEAt sixty-three years of age, less a quarter, one still has plans.
More Sidonie Gabrielle Colette Quotes
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Our perfect companions never have fewer than four feet.
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Don’t cudgel your brains over my little problems.
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The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time.
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No temptation can ever be measured by the value of its object.
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Never touch a butterfly’s wing with your finger.
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The only virtue on which I pride myself is my self-doubt; when a writer loses her self-doubt, the time has come to lay aside her pen.
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Jealousy is not at all low, but it catches us humbled and bowed down, at first sight.
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You do not notice changes in what is always before you.
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I want nothing from love, in short, but love.
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Smokers, male and female, inject and excuse idleness in their lives every time they light a cigarette.
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A happy childhood is poor preparation for human contacts.
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In the matter of furnishing, I find a certain absence of ugliness far worse than ugliness.
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The day after that wedding night I found that a distance of a thousand miles, abyss and discovery and irremediable metamorphosis, separated me from the day before.
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One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.
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As for an authentic villain, the real thing, the absolute, the artist, one rarely meets him even once in a lifetime. The ordinary bad hat is always in part a decent fellow.
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By means of an image we are often able to hold on to our lost belongings. But it is the desperateness of losing which picks the flowers of memory, binds the bouquet.
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There are connoisseurs of blue just as there are connoisseurs of wine.
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A kindly gesture bestowed by us on an animal arouses prodigies of understanding and gratitude.
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At the top of the iron staircase leading to the stage, the good, dry, dusty warmth wraps me round like a comfortable dirty cloak.
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We only do well the things we like doing.
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Be happy. It’s one way of being wise.
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If we want to be sincere, we must admit that there is a well-nourished love and an ill-nourished love. And the rest is literature.
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I love my past, I love my present. I am not ashamed of what I have had, and I am not sad because I no longer have it.
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Books, books, books. It was not that I read so much. I read and re-read the same ones. But all of them were necessary to me. Their presence, their smell, the letters of their titles, and the texture of their leather bindings.
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It takes time for the absent to assume their true shape in our thoughts.
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In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
SIDONIE GABRIELLE COLETTE