Best 223 quotes in «french quotes» category

He (Lafcadio) was sitting all alone in a compartment of the train which was carrying him away from Rome, & contemplating–not without satisfaction–his hands in their grey doeskin gloves, as they lay on the rich fawn-colored plaid, which, in spite of the heat, he had spread negligently over his knees. Through the soft woolen material of his traveling-suit he breathed ease and comfort at every pore; his neck was unconfined in its collar which without being low was unstarched, & from beneath which the narrow line of a bronze silk necktie ran, slender as a grass snake, over his pleated shirt. He was at ease in his skin, at ease in his shoes, which were cut out of the same doeskin as his gloves; his foot in its elastic prison could stretch, could bend, could feel itself alive. His beaver hat was pulled down over his eyes & kept out the landscape; he was smoking dried juniper, after the Algerian fashion, in a little clay pipe & letting his thoughts wander at their will …

He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfunny, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

Heureuse la mort qui oste le loisir aux apprests de tel equipage.

He was thirty-six years old, and six foot three. He spoke English to people and French to cats, and Latin to the birds. He had once nearly killed himself trying to read and ride a horse at the same time.

High heels? Painful pleasure.

His brown eyes would roam around the various sentimental and artistic bric-a-brac present, and his own banal toiles (the conventionally primitive eyes, sliced guitars, blue nipples and geometrical designs of the day), and with a vague gesture toward a painted wooden bowl or veined vase, he would say "Prenez donc une des ces poires. La bonne dame d'en face m'en offre plus que je n'en peux savourer." Or: "Mississe Taille Lore vient de me donner ces dahlias, belles fleurs que j'exècre.

Hope is a beautiful and magical thing. Grasp it tight, monsieur, and never let go.

How do you fancy making some dark cherry ganache with me, and we can fill these little yuzu shells with that instead? They can be a temporary special: a macaron de saison." I scrape the offending basil mixture into the bin. "Whatever you want." Her brightening eyes betray her. "That's the enthusiasm I was looking for," I reply, smiling. "What shall we call them then? It has to be French." We surrender to a thoughtful silence. Outside the cicadas are playing their noisy summer symphony. I imagine them boldly serenading one another from old tires, forgotten woodpiles, discarded plastic noodle bowls. "Something about summer..." she mumbles. After conferring with my worn, flour-dusted French-English dictionary, we agree on 'Brise d'Ete.

I beg your pardon, sir, said the Frenchman. I am not a coloniser. Well, let’s talk Algeria then. Let’s talk about your culture and your celebrated writers.

I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good things, therefore, that I can do, any good kindness that I can show a fellow being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again

If anyone does not have three minutes in his life to make an omelette, then life is not worth living.

If i was an existentialist, i would probably be French.

I had come to the conclusion that I must really be French, only no one had ever informed me of this fact. I loved the people, the food, the lay of the land, the civilized atmosphere, and the generous pace of life.

Je suis désolé,' he said. You had to wonder about the French, how they could make a simple 'sorry' sound so extreme and forlorn.

I know of no other place that is so fascinating yet so frustrating, so aware of the world and its own place within it but at the same time utterly insular. A country touched by nostalgia, with a past so great - so marked by brilliance and achievement - that French people today seem both enriched and burdened by it. France is like a maddening, moody lover who inspires emotional highs and lows. One minute it fills you with a rush of passion, the next you're full of fury, itching to smack the mouth of some sneering shopkeeper or smug civil servant. Yes, it's a love-hate relationship.

(...) il fallait séparer nos souffles, s'écarter, s'espacer, se lever, se dédoubler, et c'est toujours autant de perdu. Quand on a deux corps, il vient des moments où l'on est à moitié. - Est-ce que je suis envahissante? - Terriblement, lorsque tu n'es pas là.

Il est plus facile d'être un voyageur ou un savant que d'être un ami, un amant. Plus aisé d'aimer les hommes vaguement que d'aimer à la perfection un seul être imparfait.

Il n'est rien qui tente mes larmes que les larmes.

Ils disent, aime Dieu, car c’est la plus grande des vertus. Je dis, aime l’humain, car il n’y a pas plus grande vertu, ni religion, que l’amour de l’humanité.

Il y a des mots qu'on peut prendre dans la main. Et certains qui ont une odeur... Par exemple, "poêle à frire". Je n'aime pas dire "poêle à frire", la pièce est aussitôt pleine de fumée grasse. - Et qu'est-ce que tu dis alors ? Elle réfléchit. "Je dis "rose"." Et je vis le mouvement, je vis le souffle de ses lèvres fleurir comme un bourgeon qui s'ouvre, doucement, avec des feuilles à la respiration sourde, et une odeur merveilleuse. Rose.

I'm just a Boche," I thought to myself; "I'm a Boche and I always have been." At that time in France, I did everything that a Boche does, both those actions he performs deliberately, conscious and proud of his Bocheness, and those that he does when he is well-nigh falling over backward in his attempts not to be taken for what he is. When I returned home I wished to write a little book for Rohwohlt entitled: The Adventures of a Little Boche in France It never came to anything because quite quietly the little Boches had turned into big Boches, and from then on it was difficult for the little ones to prove that they weren't the big ones.

Impression — I was certain of it. I was just telling myself that, since I was impressed, there had to be some impression in it … and what freedom, what ease of workmanship! Wallpaper in its embryonic state is more finished than that seascape.

His tightly fitting jeans were unmistakably French.

...human thought is by no means as private as it seems, and all that you need to read somebody else's mind is the willingness to read your own.

I always enjoy French, yet Australian are so fresh, but if you talk about white I prefer German. THAT'S right! Oh, they are all so Divine... A love that's more like libertine. And all that is my taste for wine.

I am an idea in an era that has no more of them.

{...]I began to feel tears of frustration build up in my eyes, yearning to free themselves from their glandular prisons.

If I’m a monster, mademoiselle, it’s because man’s cruelty has made me so.

I have studied many languages-French, Spanish and a little Italian, but no one told me that Statistics was a foreign language.

I, his mistress, mad with grief, shall follow him...I shall share his glory. You speak of widowhood and deny me the white gown - the mourning of queens.

Il est bon à savoir. It is good to know.

I like caramel flavors; some people prefer a lighter taste, like rose, at least to start with. The chocolate-flavored ones are lovely, of course..." I am rambling; it is like choosing a favorite child, practically impossible. "What's in this one then?" She points at my newest creation, a pale, creamy white with soft flecks of yellow, like glints of gold in white marble. "Reve d'un Ange. It means 'dream of an angel.'" She tilts her head, interested, and I shrug. "Hopelessly romantic name, I know. Couldn't help myself." "What's in it?" she asked, lowering her voice. "It's my white chocolate macaron. Ganache, that's a kind of chocolate cream, sandwiched in the middle. I've added a little lemon rind and cinnamon.

I looked into the display window this morning. On a white marble shelf are aligned innumerable boxes, packages, cornets of silver and gold paper, rosettes, bells, flowers, hearts, and long curls of multicolored ribbon. In glass bells and dishes lie the chocolates, the pralines, Venus's nipples, truffles, mendiants, candied fruits, hazelnut clusters, chocolate seashells, candied rose petals, sugared violets... Protected from the sun by the half-blind that shields them, they gleam darkly, like sunken treasure, Aladdin's cave of sweet clichés. And in the middle she has built a magnificent centerpiece. A gingerbread house, walls of chocolate-coated pain d'épices with the detail piped on in silver and gold icing, roof tiles of florentines studded with crystallized fruits, strange vines of icing and chocolate growing up the walls, marzipan birds singing in chocolate trees... And the witch herself, dark chocolate from the top of her pointed hat to the hem of her long cloak half-astride a broomstick that is in reality a giant guimauve, the long twisted marshmallows that dangle from the stalls of sweet-vendors on carnival days...

I love the French edition with its uncut pages. I would not want a reader too lazy to use a knife on me.

Il y a des illusions touchantes qui sont peut-être des réalités sublimes.

Isn't this Michigan?" She laughed, "Oh oui monsieur, but the French came to Paradis more than cent ans...a hundred years ago." "And they still speak French?" "But we are French." "Aren’t you American?" She shrugged, "No one truly conquers the French, Monsieur." Josette, The Last Lord of Paradise––Generation Four

Irene gasped. "Have you taken leave of your senses, Stuart?" she hissed. "Have you?" Stuart closed his eyes. "No," he said. "Au contraire." It was strong language for the Edinburgh New Town, but he had to say it. "Don't au contraire me," said Irene. But it was too late. He had.

I said, “Je parle français.” Indira gave me a weird look. Or a look that said I was weird. Whichever. The point is, I don’t really speak French, but it’s a useful phrase for confusing people you don’t wish to speak with. However, it’s apparently more useful in Europe, where no one enjoys speaking to the French.

The Vintner's Guide to Precisely Categorizing the Wines of France mentioned all sorts of incredibly nuanced aromas in very expensive wine: slate, bark, cherries, strange herbs, all of which she had to imagine, since cidre and local vin ordinaire were all they had in the village.

I suddenly discovered that cooking was a rich and layered and endlessly fascinating subject. The best way to describe it is to say that I fell in love with French food- the tastes, the processes, the history, the endless variations, the rigorous discipline, the creativity, the wonderful people, the equipment, the rituals.

Italian men are beautiful in the same way as French women, which is to say - no detail spared in the quest for perfection.

It is time to buddle (scrub in water) all that is not illutile (unwash-awayable). Baudelaire said that humans were deluded if they thought they could wash away all their spots with vile tears, but Baudelaire was French and therefore knew nothing about hygiene or shower gel.

I think we are wise, we English speakers, to savor accents. They teach us things about our own tongue.

I transform "Work" in its analytic meaning (the Work of Mourning, the Dream-Work) into the real "Work" - of writing.) for: the "Work" by which (it is said) we emerge from the great crises (love, grief) cannot be liquidated hastily: for me, it is accomplished only in and by writing.

It seemed that in Paris you could discuss classic literature or architecture or great music with everyone from the garbage collector to the mayor.

It is eight o'clock when Juliette plates up Paol's catch. It fills three large platters piled with ice chips- small bright red crustaceans, new-shell spider crabs called moussettes, thin black bigorneaux- everything with claws and barnacles like little prehistoric monsters. A bounty. Fruits de mer- "fruits of the sea"; trésors ("treasures"), more like. From sweet fresh oysters to fat crab claws and everything in between- vermilion, black, and gray.

I've been eating my version of Herme's Ispahan macaron all week, trying to get it right." "Eating what?" "Ispahan. It's a rose macaron, with raspberry insertion... that berry jelly in the middle.

In your opinion, where do private and political life, personal history and History meet? You know the answer, Maya. You say it unhesitatingly - in art and literature.

It was too late for the truth – and too soon.

I wish I could say he was a French professor, a French chef, or even a bilingual tutor, but I can’t. He worked in a factory and spent his summer evenings at a reenactment village as a blacksmith or something equally masculine. But it didn’t really matter. He was the kind of man I had dreamt of, one who could bring a touch of the exotic to my small-town existence. (No doubt he would make love as passionately as he spoke French.)