George Sand Quotes

Genius, whether locked up in a cell or roaming at large, is always solitary.

The brain is a tool that gets rusty without constant, albeit moderate, exercise.

The most honest of men is the one who thinks and acts best, but the most powerful is the one who writes and speaks best.

Some say that cats are devils, but they behave badly only when they are alone. When they are among us cats are angels.

There are no more thorough prudes than those who have some little secret to hide.

... what is there over which the incomparable beauty of childhood would not triumph?

honesty dies in selling itself.

It is extraordinary how music sends one back into memories of the past.

Vanity is the most despotic and iniquitous of masters, and I can never be the slave of my own vices.

... love is too delicate a flower to rise again when one has trampled it under foot.

You can bind my body, tie my hands, govern my actions: you are the strongest, and society adds to your power; but with my will, sir, you can do nothing.

And I refused to make any sacrifices; for nothing on earth seemed more valuable than my peace of mind, my pleasure and my acclaim.

Party politics is now a real farce.

It is high time that we had lights that are not incendiary torches.

Nature distributes her favors unequally.

One changes from day to day, and... after a few years have passed one has completely altered.

Our work can never be better than we are ourselves.

To be made evident, truth must be sought for; for of itself it is slow to appear, and between ourselves and God the obstacles are so many!

Weeds are omnipresent; errors are to be found in the heart of the most lovable.

You, stupid one, who believe in laws which punish murder by murder...

Celebrate within yourself that wonderful treasure . . . true kindness.

The whole secret of the study of nature lies in learning how to use one's eyes.

My strength has not equaled my mad ambition. I have remained obscure; I have done worse -- I have touched success, and allowed it to escape me.

I know that I have found fulfillment. I have an object in life, a task ... a passion.

Where love is absent there can be no woman.

Life is a slate where all our sins are written; from time to time we rub the sponge of repentance over it so we can begin sinning again.

Writing a journal means that facing your ocean you are afraid to swim across it, so you attempt to drink it drop by drop.

Art speaks only to the mind, whereas nature speaks to all the faculties.

O heart! love is thy bane and thy antidote.

One never knows how much a family may grow; and when a hive is too full, and it is necessary to form a new swarm, each one thinks of carrying away his own honey.

No religion can be built on force.

Simplicity, a delicate silence about oneself, increases their worth and makes one love those whom one admires.

[Failure is hard initially because] One knows what one has lost, but not what one may find [and learn from that failure]!

almost all novels are love stories.

You see what stupid folk my publishers are; but they are all alike.

Death must no longer be either the penalty for prosperity or the consolation of misery. God did not destine it to be either the punishment or the compensation for life.

Ever since time began the world has seemed stupid to those who aren't stupid themselves. It was to avoid that annoyance that I became stupid myself, as fast as ever I could. Sheer egoism, no doubt.

Time is always wanting to me, and I cannot meet with a single day when I am nut hurried along, driven to by wits'-end by urgent work, business to attent do or some service to render.

a woman, when she is heroic, is not heroic by halves.

There is but on virtue--the eternal sacrifice of self.

The publication of a book only brings very paltry results to its author.

... the progress of the language has caused us to lose many old treasures. It is thus with all progress, and one must make the best of it.

The more you lose the right to be jealous, the more so you become!

There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.

Le vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliqué."[Letter to Armand Barbès, 12 May 1867]

J'ai un but, une tâche, disons le mot, une passion. Le métier d'écrire en est une violente et presque indestructible."[Letter to Jules Boucoiran, 4 March 1831]

Immodest creature, you do not want a woman who will accept your faults, you want the one who pretends you are faultless – one who will caress the hand that strikes her and kiss the lips that lie to

Nature alone can speak to our intelligence an imperishable language, never changing, because it remains within the bounds of eternal truth and of what is absolutely noble and beautiful.

The capacity of passion is both cruel and divine

[I]t is that we are too apt to despise what appears to be neither good nor beautiful, and thus we lose what is helpful and salutary.