Best 223 quotes in «french quotes» category

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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 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.)

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.

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 was the French of the Normans that, grafting itself onto the barbaric Saxon tongue, gave it its most magnificent blossoming. And, in these new countries, where both English and French are intertwined again, it is as if English were bathing itself in the fountain of its own youth, and as if French were remembering the buried treasures it had thought forgotten.

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

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 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 was too late for the truth – and too soon.

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.

Le monde appartient À la femme africaine combattante, Ambitieuse, éduquée et indépendante. À celle qui ne craint ni la douleur ni la solitude. À celle qui, vêtue d'un esprit de tonnerre, Équipée de sang de guerrière, Éffraie l'échec.

La Religion ne signifie pas obéir à certaines règles issues de livres écrits il y a des centaines ou des milliers d’années. La Religion signifie la réalisation du soi.

L’imagination de l’Homme est un puis de mystère que seul le créateur connait les profondeurs.

Madame Reynaud pushes parcels of fish and octopus and mussels into Juliette's hands, gives her fresh heavy cream and a handful off eggs that will make up for the things she has to combine them with. Then she urges Juliette out into the garden and tells her to take whatever she likes, plucking dark spinach leaves for her as Juliette takes some chervil and breaks off sorrel. The green and lemon scent of the sorrel fragrances Juliette's palm, helping her to forget the dreadful hospital smells.

L'utilité du vivre n'est pas en l'espace: elle est en l'usage.

Mais Turandot sort brusquement de son bistrot et, du bas des marches, il lui crie : "Eh petite, où vas-tu comme ça ?" Zazie ne lui rèpond pas, elle se contente d'allonger le pas.

L'utopie a changé de camp : est aujourd'hui utopiste celui qui croit que tout peut continuer comme avant.

Mais, vrai, J'ai trop pleure! Les aubes sont navrantes. What a sad and beautiful line that is. I'd always hoped that someday I'd be able to use it.

MANGE DES MUFFINS!" - Bast

Men jeg drister mig, uden Vanitet, at sige, at vore Nordiske Tilskuere, helst af Middelstand, ere langt beqvem-mere Dommere herudi, end de Parisiske: Thi hvis de første ikke have saa fiin Smag som de sidste, saa have de den dog ikke saa selsom og fordærved.

Max,' I said, looking up at him, 'I love the Russian heritage you guys are so willing to share, but I'm not so thrilled with the French.' 'What?' His brows lowered. 'We're not French.' 'Great. So the next time you feel the need to kiss me, keep your tongue out of my mouth!

Maybe that was why the French called orgasms “las petites morts”: because the things that bring us passion tend to slip past our defenses, to creep insidiously into every facet of our consciousnesses and kill us as ruthlessly, and efficiently, as any drug.

Métamorphoses la nuit je veux l'enrouler autour de moi comme un drap chaud elle avec ses étoiles blanches, avec sa malédiction grise avec ses bouts ondoyants, qui traquent les coqs des jours, je pends dans les charpentes aussi raide qu'une chauve-souris, je me laisse tomber dans l'air et je pars en chasse. Homme, j'ai rêvé de ton sang, je te mords jusqu'à la blessure, je me love dans tes cheveux et j'aspire ta bouche. Au-dessus des tours émondées les cimes du ciel sont noires. De leurs troncs dénudés suinte de la résine vitreuse vers des coupes invisibles de porto. Dans mes yeux marron demeure le reflet, Avec mes yeux marron doré je pars chercher ma proie, je capture poisson dans les tombes, celles qui se tiennent entre les maisons je capture poisson dans la mer : et la mer est une place plus loin avec des mats brisés, des amours noyés. Les lourdes cloches du navire sonnent venant de la forêt des algues. Sous la forme du navire se fige une forme d'enfant, dans ses mains du limon, au front une lumière. Entre nous les eaux voyagent, je ne te garde pas. Derrière des vitres gelées luisent des lampes bariolées et blanches, des cuillères livides coulent dans le bol, glace multicolore ; je vous appâte avec des fruits rouges, faits avec mes lèvres je suis un petit en-cas dans le gobelet de la nuit.

Once during a case of stomach flu, I needed to tell the 
doctor I’d been vomiting, but instead of shifting into the imperfect, I 
used the present je vomis (I’m vomiting), then stood up from his desk and mimicked a fake retch. The doctor in question pushed back from 
his seat thinking it was the real thing, only for me to fake retch again 
then say “dans le passé” (in the past), moving my arm as way to signal 
time past. He quickly wrote me a prescription and handed it to me at 
arm’s length.

Mon être ne subsiste que sous un point de vue suprême qui est justement incompatible avec mon point de vue. La perspective dans laquelle je m’évanouis à mes yeux, me restaure, image complète, pour l’œil irréel auquel j’interdis toute image. Image complète par rapport à un monde sans image qui me figure dans l’absence de toute figure imaginable. Être d’un non-être dont je suis l’infime négation qu’il suscite comme sa profonde harmonie. Dans la nuit deviendrais-je l’univers?

My favorite of all was still the place on Vermont, the French cafe, La Lyonnaise, that had given me the best onion soup on that night with George and my father. The two owners hailed from France, from Lyon, before the city had boomed into a culinary sibling of Paris. Inside, it had only a few tables, and the waiters served everything out of order, and it had a B rating in the window, and they usually sat me right by the swinging kitchen door, but I didn't care about any of it. There, I ordered chicken Dijon, or beef Bourguignon, or a simple green salad, or a pate sandwich, and when it came to the table, I melted into whatever arrived. I lavished in a forkful of spinach gratin on the side, at how delighted the chef had clearly been over the balance of spinach and cheese, like she was conducting a meeting of spinach and cheese, like a matchmaker who knew they would shortly fall in love. Sure, there were small distractions and preoccupations in it all, but I could find the food in there, the food was the center, and the person making the food was so connected with the food that I could really, for once, enjoy it.

My lord said, amongst other things, that he did not propose to burden the doctor with the details of his genealogy. He consigned the doctor and all his works, severally and comprehensively described, to hell, and finished up his epic speech by a pungent and Rabelaisian criticism of the whole race of leeches.

N’ayez pas peur. Parlez des bonnes choses de votre vie a qui veut les entendre. L’âme du Monde a grand besoin de votre joie.

N'importe quel groupe de scélérats, pourvu qu’ils aient assez d'argent pour l'entreprendre, peuvent décider qu'ils sont un gouvernement; car, pourvu qu'ils aient de l'argent, ils peuvent engager des soldats, et utiliser ces soldats pour extorquer davantage d'argent, et ainsi contraindre tout le monde à obéir à leurs volontés.

N'importe quoi pouvait donc m'arriver, comme à n'importe qui : quelle révolution! C'est tellement étonnant d'être soi, justement soi, c'est si radicalement unique, qu'on a peine à se persuader que cette singularité se rencontre chez tout le monde et qu'on relève des statistiques. Maladie, accident, malheur, ça n'arrive jamais qu'aux autres : mais sous les yeux des curieux, l'autre brusquement, c'était moi; comme tous les autres, j'étais pour tous les autres une autre.

Nothing is more difficult than competing with myth

Nous vivons dans des tombes et les appelons le foyer, et nous devons encore soutenir la structure névrotique de ces tombes avec des éléments d’une signification soi-disant sociologique, culturelle, traditionnelle, religieuse, politique et intellectuelle.

Occasionally, merely for the pleasure of being cruel, we put unoffending Frenchmen on the rack with questions framed in the incomprehensible jargon of their native language, and while they writhed, we impaled them, we peppered them, we scarified them, with their own vile verbs and participles.

On devient jeune à soixante ans. Malheureusement, c'est trop tard

One day I have a revelation. ‘I think we’re actually quite compatible,’ I tell him. ‘You’re irritable, and I’m irritating.

On ne retombe pas en enfance, on n'en sort jamais. Vieux, moi? Qu'est-ce qu'un vieillard sinon un enfant qui a pris de l'âge ou du vendre ?...

On ne comprends rien à la civilisation moderne, si l'on n'admet pas d'abord qu'elle est une conspiration universelle contre toute espèce de vie intérieure.

On this matter I'm inclined to agree with the French, who gaze upon any personal dietary prohibition as bad manners.

Opium resembles religion insofar as a magician resembles Jesus.

Ne cherche jamais l'amour, laisse que celui-ci te cherche. Rappelle toi qu'on est 7 milliards

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

...Nothing is more disgusting than a glass of milk, especially French milk, which comes in a box and can sit unrefrigerated for five months, at which point it simply turns into cheese and is moved to a different section of the grocery store.

O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt. Sie wußtens nicht und habens jeden Falls – sein Wandeln, seine Haltung, seinen Hals, bis in des stillen Blickes Licht – geliebt. Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie’s liebten, ward ein reines Tier. Sie ließen immer Raum. Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart, erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum zu sein È questo l’animale favoloso, che non esiste. Non veduto mai, ne amaron le movenze, il collo, il passo: fino la luce dello sguardo calmo. Pure “non era”. Ma perchè lo amarono, divenne. Intatto. Gli lasciavan sempre più spazio. E in quello spazio chiaro, etereo: serbato a lui – levò, leggiero, il capo. And here we have the creature that is not. But they did not allow this , and as it happens - his gait and bearing, his arched neck, even the light in his eyes - they loved it all. Yet truly he was not. But because they loved him the beast was seen. And always they made room. And in that space, empty and unbounded, he raised an elegant head, yet hardly fought for his existence. Oh ! C'est elle, la bête qui n'existe pas. Eux, ils n'en savaient rien, et de toutes façons - son allure et son port, son col et même la lumière calme de son regard - ils l'ont aimée. Elle, c'est vrai, n'existait point. Mais parce qu'ils l'aimaient bête pure, elle fut. Toujours ils lui laissaient l'espace. Et dans ce clair espace épargné, doucement, Elle leva la tête, ayant à peine besoin d'être.

On June 23, 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil. The first person I took was close to the door, his mind racing, then reduced to pacing, then slowing down, slowing down.... Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each would that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear. I took them all away, and if there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to gray to the color of rain. Even the clouds were trying to get away. Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye. They ere French, they were Jews, and they were you.