Quotes from Émile Zola

he was carried aloft, for the moment, on one of those great waves of hope from which he was usually plunged deep into the agonies familiar to all artists with a devouring passion for nature. (25)

the vague feeling of ambitions in common, the awakening of a higher intelligence among the vulgar herd of dunces and dunderheads they had to contend with in class (27)

to study the ambitions and appetites of a family launched upon the modern world, making superhuman efforts but always failing because of its own nature and the influences upon it, almost getting there only then to fall back again, and ending up by producing veritable moral monsters, the priest, the murderer, the artist. The times are in turmoil, and it is this turmoil of the moment which I shall depict. (vii)

that they were often as thrilled by trash as by an acknowledged masterpiece (32)

I want to depict the artist's struggle with reality, the sheer effort of creation which goes into every work of art, the blood and tears involved in giving of one's flesh, in trying to make something that lives...the endless the defeats, the struggle with the angel.' (ix)

spoilt his eye (35)

to uncover the true workings of human society from beneath the aesthetic surface under observation. (xiii)

What was Art, after all, if not simply giving out what you have inside you? ... Wasn't a bunch of carrots, yes, a bunch of carrots, studied directly and painted simply, personally, as you see it yourself, as good as any of the run-of-the-mill, made-to-measure Ecole des Beaux-Arts stuff, painted with tobacco juice? The day was not far off when one solitary, original carrot might be pregnant with revolution! (35)

it was in that uncertain state of mind that he began to sketch her face (12)

la machine ronflait, crachait, comme une bête qu'on surmène, avec des sursauts, des coups de reins, où l'on aurait cru entendre craquer ses membres.

Words failed him again; he began to stammer in his unsuccessful attempt to express the first vague stirrings of the future he could feel within himself. While he finished feverishly brushing in the black velvet jacket, there was a long silence. (37)

He caressed them, did them violence even, and shed tears of despair over his failures to make them either sufficiently beautiful or sufficiently alive. (42)

his eyes burning with the unspeakable torture of his impotence. His hands had refused once more to produce anything clear or lifelike (45)

the dead flesh of the beauty of his dreams (49)

What is a source of sorrow to some is a source of joy to others.

suffering unspeakable torture at the thought of leaving his picture as it was, disfigured by an ugly, gaping wound. (49)

Yes! live life with every fibre of one's being, surrender oneself to it, with no thoughts of rebellion, without deluding oneself that one can improve it and render it painless.

In love as in speculation there is much filth; in love also, people think only of their own gratification; yet without love there would be no life, and the world would come to an end.

The fear of life, the fear of burdens and of duties, of annoyances and of catastrophes! The fear of life, which makes us, through dread of its sufferings, refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, this cowardliness enrages me; I cannot forgive it. We must live - live a complete life - live all our life.

I am little concerned with beauty or perfection. I don't care for the great centuries. All I care about is life, struggle, intensity.

Up to this day, there has been no proof of the existence of any intelligence other than the human.

Vines will be planted, corn will spring up, a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual renewal of birth and growth.

One forges one's style on the terrible anvil of daily deadlines.

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!