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I Love My Work With A Frenetic And Perverse Love, As An Ascetic Loves The Hair Shirt Which Scratches His Belly.
-Gustave Flaubert
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I Love My Work

Gustave Flaubert
...
I Love My Work With A Frenetic And Perverse Love, As An Ascetic Loves The Hair Shirt Which Scratches His Belly.

Understanding the Quote: "i love my work with a frenetic and perverse love, as an..."

This quote by Gustave Flaubert reflects deeply on the theme of hair. It connects to the universal human journey of purpose, motivation, and reflection. Often categorized under Hair, Scratches, Shirts, the quote offers insight, emotional clarity, and intellectual inspiration to readers worldwide.

Whether you’re a student exploring new ideas, a leader trying to motivate your team, or someone seeking direction in life — this quote provides value. It resonates because it’s more than words — it’s a bridge between experience and wisdom. It shows how Gustave Flaubert interprets life's core challenges and triumphs.

Lessons From the Quote

This quote teaches resilience and focus. It reminds readers that no matter where they stand in life, reflection and self-awareness lead to growth. Each word has meaning, and when studied, it becomes clear how impactful thoughtful language can be.

About Gustave Flaubert

Gustave Flaubert is celebrated for insightful thoughts on hair and scratches. Their legacy lives on through writings that guide, comfort, and inspire. Discover more on their profile page.

Actionable Takeaways

  • Reflect on how this quote applies to your current life path.
  • Share the message with someone who needs inspiration.
  • Write your thoughts on this quote in a journal or blog post.
  • Use it as a daily affirmation or reminder.

Closing Thoughts

Quotes like this endure because they capture universal truths. They comfort us in solitude and empower us in groups. Carry this quote forward — live by its wisdom, share its message, and keep its essence alive.

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Hair
Scratches
Shirts
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Desperate
I Hate That Which We Have Decided To Call Realism, Even Though I Have Been Made One Of Its High Priests.
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Literature
Priests
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She Did Not Believe That Things Could Remain The Same In Different Places, And Since The Portion Of Her Life That Lay Behind Her Had Been Bad, No Doubt That Which Remained To Be Lived Would Be Better.
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Taste
Exuberance
Boredom, That Silent Spider, Was Spinning Its Web In The Darkness In Every Corner Of Her Heart.
Heart
Blessing
Boredom
Before Her Marriage She Had Thought That She Had Love Within Her Grasp; But Since The Happiness Which She Had Expected This Love To Bring Her Hadn’t Come, She Supposed She Must Have Been Mistaken. And Emma Tried To Imagine Just What Was Meant, In Life, By The Words “bliss,” “passion,” And “rapture” - Words That Had Seemed So Beautiful To Her In Books.
Beautiful
Book
Passion
It Is Always Sad To Leave A Place To Which One Knows One Will Never Return. Such Are The Melancolies Du Voyage: Perhaps They Are One Of The Most Rewarding Things About Traveling.
Travel
Voyages
Return
She Remembered The Heroines Of Novels She Had Read, And The Lyrical Legion Of Those Adulterous Women Began To Sing In Her Memory With Sisterly Voices That Enchanted Her. Now She Saw Herself As One Of Those Amoureuses Whom She Had So Envied: She Was Becoming, In Reality, One Of That Gallery Of Fictional Figures; The Long Dream Of Her Youth Was Coming True.
Dream
Memories
Reality
One Day, I Shall Explode Like An Artillery Shell And All My Bits Will Be Found On The Writing Table.
Writing
One Day
Shells
Cold. Healthier Than Heat.
Science
Heat
Cold
Read In Order To Live.
Book
Reading
Order
Life Is So Horrible That One Can Only Bear It By Avoiding It. And That Can Be Done By Living In The World Of Art.
Art
Bears
Done
Once One Has Kissed A Cadaver's Forehead, There Always Remains Something Of It On The Lips, An Infinite Bitterness, An Aftertasteof Nothingness That Nothing Can Erase.
Death
Cadavers
Bitterness
By Working One Can Bend Fortune. She Is Fond Of Crafty Men.
Men
Fortune
Crafty
She Was The Amoureuse Of All The Novels, The Heroine Of All The Plays, The Vague “she” Of All The Poetry Books.
Book
Play
Heroines
I Go Dreaming Into The Future, Where I See Nothing, Nothing. I Have No Plans, No Idea, No Project, And, What Is Worse, No Ambition. Something – The Eternal ‘what’s The Use?’ – Sets Its Bronze Barrier Across Every Avenue That I Open Up In The Realm Of Hypothesis.
Depression
Dream
Ambition
The Faster The Word Sticks To The Thought, The More Beautiful Is The Effect.
Beautiful
Literature
Sticks
Emma Was No Asleep, She Was Pretending To Be Asleep; And, While He Was Dozing Off At Her Side, She Lay Awake, Dreaming Other Dreams.
Dream
Dozing
Sides
A Man, At Least, Is Free; He Can Explore Every Passion, Every Land, Overcome Obstacles, Taste The Most Distant Pleasures. But A Woman Is Continually Thwarted. Inert And Pliant At The Same Time, She Must Struggle Against Both The Softness Of Her Flesh And Subjection To The Law. Her Will, Like The Veil Tied To Her Hat By A String, Flutters With Every Breeze; There Is Always Some Desire Luring Her On, Some Convention Holding Her Back.
Women
Struggle
Passion
May I Die Like A Dog Rather Than Hasten The Ripening Of A Sentence By A Single Second!
Dog
May
Ripening
What Seems To Me The Highest And The Most Difficult Achievement Of Art Is Not To Make Us Laugh Or Cry, Or To Rouse Our Lust Or Our Anger, But To Do As Nature Does-that Is, Fill Us With Wonderment.
Art
Anger
Laughing
Through Small Apertures We Glimpse Abysses Whose Sombre Depths Turn Us Faint. And Yet Over The Whole There Hovers An Extraordinary Tenderness.
Life
Glimpse
Aperture
On Certain Occasions Art Can Shake Very Ordinary Spirits, And Whole Worlds Can Be Revealed By Its Clumsiest Interpreters.
Art
Ordinary
World
You Need A High Degree Of Corruption Or A Very Big Heart To Love Absolutely Everything
Heart
Criticism
Degrees
The Future Is The Worst Thing About The Present.
Worst
Worst Things
What Wretched Poverty Of Language! To Compare Stars To Diamonds!
Stars
Poverty
Language
I Had, As I Told You, A Great Passion While Still Almost A Child. When It Was Over, I Divided Myself In Two, Placing On One Side The Soul I Kept For Art, And On The Other, My Body, Which Would Have To Fend For Itself.
Love
Art
Children
Criticism Occupies The Lowest Place In The Literary Hierarchy: As Regards Form, Almost Always; And As Regards Moral Value, Incontestably. It Comes After Rhyming Games And Acrostics, Which At Least Require A Certain Inventiveness.
Games
Criticism
Hierarchy
Stupidity Consists In Wanting To Reach Conclusions. We Are A Thread, And We Want To Know The Whole Cloth.
Wisdom
Reading
Knowledge
The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.
Literature
Poet
Priests
I Love Good Sense Above All, Perhaps Because I Have None.
Love
Good Sense
But An Infinity Of Passions Can Be Contained In A Minute, Like A Crowd In A Tiny Space.
Passion
Space
Crowds
Ah! In Fact There Are Two Moralities ... The Petty One, The Conventional One, The One Devised By Men, That Keeps Changing And Bellows So Loudly, Making A Commotion Down Here Among Us, In A Perfectly Pedestrian Way ... But The Other One, The Eternal One, Is All Around And Above Us, Like A Landscape That Surrounds Us And The Blue Sky That Gives Us Light.
Men
Sky
Two
The Art Of Writing Is The Art Of Discovering What You Believe.
Inspirational
Life
Art
It Is Necessary To Sleep Upon The Pillow Of Doubt.
Sleep
Doubt
Pillow
I Like Prostitution. My Heart Has Never Failed To Pound At The Sight Of One Of Those Provocatively Dressed Women Walking In The Rain Under The Gaslamps, Just As The Sight Of Monks In Their Robes And Girdles Touches Some Ascetic, Hidden Corner Of My Soul.
Rain
Heart
Sight
I Took Eugene Sue's Arthur From The Reading-room. It's Indescribable, Enough To Make You Vomit. You Have To Read This To Realize The Pitifulness Of Money, Success, And The Public. Literature Has Become Consumptive. It Spits And Slobbers, Covers Its Blisters With Salve And Sticking-plaster, And Has Grown Bald From Too Much Hair-slicking. It Would Take Christ Of Art To Cure This Leper.
Art
Reading
Writing
Love Is A Springtime Plant That Perfumes Everything With Its Hope, Even The Ruins To Which It Clings.
Love
Literature
Ruins
The One Way Of Tolerating Existence Is To Lose Oneself In Literature As In A Perpetual Orgy.
Book
Literature
Way
I Do Not Like To "interest" The Public With Myself.
Self
Fame
Interest
But The Disparaging Of Those We Love Always Alienates Us From Them To Some Extent. We Must Not Touch Our Idols; The Gilt Comes Off In Our Hands.
Hands
Idols
Those We Love
He Loved A Book Because It Was A Book; He Loved Its Odor, Its Form, Its Title. What He Loved In A Manuscript Was Its Old Illegible Date, The Bizarre And Strange Gothic Characters, The Heavy Gilding Which Loaded Its Drawings. It Was Its Pages Covered With Dust — Dust Of Which He Breathed The Sweet And Tender Perfume With Delight.
Sweet
Book
Character
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