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Read Ebook: Widger's Quotations from the Project Gutenberg Editions of the Works of Guy de Maupassant by Maupassant Guy De Widger David Editor
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Ebook has 72 lines and 6011 words, and 2 pages
"Why; you are just the same as the others, you fool!" That was indeed bravado, one of those pieces of impudence of which a woman makes use when she dares everything, risks everything, to wound and humiliate the man who has aroused her ire. This poor man must also be one of those deceived husbands, like so many others. He had said sadly: "There are times when she seems to have more confidence and faith in our friends than in me." That is how a husband formulated his observations on the particular attentions of his wife for another man. That was all. He had seen nothing more. He was like the rest--all the rest!
He awaited he knew not what, possessed with that vague hope which persists in the human heart in spite of everything. He awaited in the corner of the farmyard in the biting December wind, some mysterious aid from Heaven or from men, without the least idea whence it was to arrive. A number of black hens ran hither and thither, seeking their food in the earth which supports all living things. Ever now and then they snapped up in their beaks a grain of corn or a tiny insect; then they continued their slow, sure search for nutriment.
SHORT STORIES V9 3085
Full of that common sense which borders on stupidity Let them respect my convictions, and I will respect theirs Love that is sacred--not marriage! Mediocrities and the fools always form the immense majority Night-robe of streams and meadows Only being allowed to read religious works or cook-books Poetry did not seem to be the strong point Purgatory and paradise according to the yearly income She went through life in a mood of perpetual discontent So stupid and they pretend they know everything Spend his time quietly regretting the past The tomb is the boundary of conjugal sinning When we love, we have need of confession World has made laws to combat our instincts
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"I heard 'birr! birr!' and a magnificent covey rose at ten paces from me. I aimed. Pif! paf! and I saw a shower, a veritable shower of birds. There were seven of them!"--And they all went into raptures, amazed, but reciprocally credulous.
She was still smiling as she looked at him; she even began to laugh; and he lost his head trying to find something suitable to say, no matter what. But he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, seized with a coward's courage, he said to himself: 'So much the worse, I will risk everything,' and suddenly, without the slightest warning, he went toward her, his arms extended, his lips protruding, and, seizing her in his arms, he kissed her.
My elder sons never loved me, never petted me, scarcely treated me as a mother, but during my whole life I did my duty towards them, and I owe them nothing more after my death. The ties of blood cannot exist without daily and constant affection. An ungrateful son is less than, a stranger; he is a culprit, for he has no right to be indifferent towards his mother.
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I held my tongue, and thought over those words. Oh, ethics! Oh, logic! Oh, wisdom! At his age! So they deprived him of his only remaining pleasure out of regard for his health! His health! What would he do with it, inert and trembling wreck that he was? They were taking care of his life, so they said. His life? How many days? Ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred? Why? For his own sake? Or to preserve for some time longer the spectacle of his impotent greediness in the family.
But all at once one envelope made me start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter was from my dearest friend, the companion of my youth, the confidant of my hopes; and he appeared before me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his hand outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back. Yes, yes, the dead come back, for I saw him! Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
But she shook with rage, and got up one of those conjugal scenes which make a peaceable man dread the domestic hearth more than a battlefield where bullets are raining.
SHORT STORIES V12 3088
Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes "Father Saval," had just risen from bed. He was weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves were falling. They fell slowly in the rain, like a heavier and slower rain. M. Saval was not in good spirits. He walked from the fireplace to the window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its sombre days. It would no longer have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody about him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without any one who is devoted to you!
He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty. He recalled former days, the days of his childhood, the home, the house of his parents; his college days, his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his father's illness, his death. He then returned to live with his mother. They lived together very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the mother died. How sad life is! He lived alone since then, and now, in his turn, he, too, will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will be the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval upon the earth. What a frightful thing! Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people will go on amusing themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not strange that people can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal certainty of death? If this death were only probable, one could then have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night follows the day.
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How I understood them, these who weak, harassed by misfortune, having lost those they loved, awakened from the dream of a tardy compensation, from the illusion of another existence where God will finally be just, after having been ferocious, and their minds disabused of the mirages of happiness, have given up the fight and desire to put an end to this ceaseless tragedy, or this shameful comedy.
Suicide! Why, it is the strength of those whose strength is exhausted, the hope of those who no longer believe, the sublime courage of the conquered! Yes, there is at least one door to this life we can always open and pass through to the other side. Nature had an impulse of pity; she did not shut us up in prison. Mercy for the despairing!
If genius is, as is commonly believed, a sort of aberration of great minds, then Algernon Charles Swinburne is undoubtedly a genius.
Great minds that are healthy are never considered geniuses, while this sublime qualification is lavished on brains that are often inferior but are slightly touched by madness.
COMPLETE SHORT STORIES, BY MAUPASSANT 3090
Anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of enemies As he had never enjoyed anything, he desired nothing Calling all religious things "weeper's wares" Chronic passion for cleaning Dependent, like other emotions, on surroundings Devouring faith which is the making of martyrs and visionaries Did wrong in doing her duty Do you know how I picture God? Don't talk about things you know nothing about Don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first Everyone has his share Freemasonry made up of those who possess Full of that common sense which borders on stupidity Great ones of this world who make war Greatest shatterer of dreams who had ever dwelt on earth Hardly understand at all those bellicose ardors Hotel bed: Who has occupied it the night before? How much excited cowardice there often is in boldness I am learning my trade Impenetrable night, thicker than walls and empty Insolent like all in authority Irresistible force of mutual affection Isn't for the fun of it, anyhow! Key of a door Kiss of the man without a mustache Legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother Let us be indignant, or let us be enthusiastic Let them respect my convictions, and I will respect theirs Like all women, being very fond of indigestible things Love is always love, come whence it may Love must unsettle the mind Love has no law Love that is sacred--not marriage! Machine for bringing children into the world Mediocrities and the fools always form the immense majority Moments of friendly silence Muscles of their faces have never learned the motions of laughter "My God! my God!" without believing, nevertheless, in God Night-robe of streams and meadows One cannot both be and have been Only by going a long distance from home Only being allowed to read religious works or cook-books People do not think as they speak, and do not speak as they act Pines, close at hand, seemed to be weeping Poetry did not seem to be the strong point Presence of a woman, that sovereign inspiration Preserved in a pickle of innocence Purgatory and paradise according to the yearly income Rage of a timid man Resisted that feeling of comfort and relief Sadness of existences that have had their day She was an ornament, not a home She went through life in a mood of perpetual discontent She saw that he would yield on every point So stupid and they pretend they know everything Spend his time quietly regretting the past Spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house Subtleties of expression to describe the most improper things The tomb is the boundary of conjugal sinning Thin veneer of modesty of every woman Thrill of furious and bestial anger which urges on a mob to massacre Unconscious brutality which is so common in the country Well-planned disorder What is sadder than a dead house When we love, we have need of confession When did you lie, the last time or now? World has made laws to combat our instincts
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