I don't race a lot, half a dozen (races) a year maybe.
the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong. )
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
I am walking like a bewitched corpse, with the certainty of being eaten by the infinite, of being annulled by the only existing Absurd.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell.
I wonder what spendthrift chose to spill Such a bright gold under my windowsill! Is it fair gold? Does it glitter still? Bless me! It's a daffodil!
DAGUERREOTYPE Will take the place of painting. (See PHOTOGRAPHY. ) (From The Dictionary of Received Ideas, assembled from notes Flaubert made in the 1870s. )
Follow the way of virtue. Follow the way joyfully through this world and on beyond.
Are we savages or what?