Francois Mauriac
Francois Mauriac
François Charles Mauriacwas a French novelist, dramatist, critic, poet, and journalist, a member of the Académie française, and laureate of the Nobel Prize in Literature. He was awarded the Grand Cross of the Légion d'honneur in 1958...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth11 October 1885
CountryFrance
dearly french-novelist hope love
I love Germany so dearly that I hope there will always be two of them.
belongs drop embrace eternal jewish last single word worth
We do not know the worth of one single drop of blood, one single tear. All is grace. If the Eternal is the Eternal, the last word for each one of us belongs to Him. This is what I should have told this Jewish child. But I could only embrace him weeping.
cross destiny friendship leaving mark path
No love, no friendship Can cross the path of our destiny Without leaving some mark on it forever.
book forgotten enough
What I fear is not being forgotten after my death, but, rather, not being enough forgotten. As we were saying, it is not our books that survive, but our poor lives that linger in the histories.
ideas cowardice burden
Let us be wary of ready-made ideas about cowardice and courage: the same burden weighs infinitely more heavily on some shoulders than on others.
spring feet criticism
A good critic is the sorcerer who makes some hidden spring gush forth unexpectedly under our feet.
doubt arrogance despair
The arrogance of poets is only a defense; doubt gnaws the greatest among them; they need our testimony to escape despair.
passion men climbing
A man's passion for the mountain is, above all, his childhood which refuses to die.
two germany glad
I love Germany so much I'm glad there are two of them.
wells deprived knows
We know well only what we are deprived of.
giving answers doe
God does not answer our desperate questionings; he simply gives us himself.
loneliness writing men
A writer is essentially a man who does not resign himself to loneliness.
light sprung-up secret
It seems that, after nineteen centuries of extraordinary glorification, the small Host for which so many cathedrals have sprung up, the small Host that has rested in millions of breasts and that has found a tabernacle and worshippers even in the desert - it seems that the triumphant Host of Lourdes and the Eucharistic Congresses of Chicago and Carthage remains as unknown, as secret as when it appeared for the first time in a room in Jerusalem. Light is in the world as in the days of St. John the Baptist, and the world does not know it
writing creative suits
I write whenever it suits me. During a creative period I write every day; a novel should not be interrupted. When I cease to be carried along, when I no longer feel as though I were taking down dictation, I stop.