The Little French Bistro Quotes

Any man who loves a woman as she deserves to be loved is a magician.

One might have to be a little ruthless to seize back control of one's life, don't you think?

Every woman is a priestess if she loves life and can work magic on herself and those who are sacred to her. It’s time for women to remind themselves of the powers they have inside.

I don't know why we women believe that sacrificing our desires makes us more attractive to men. What on earth are we thinking? That someone who goes without her wishes deserves to be loved more than she who follows her dreams?

Life wasn’t too short: it was too long to waste unduly on non-love, non-laughter and non-decisions. And it began when you first took a risk, failed and realized that you’d survived the failure. With that knowledge, you could risk anything.

Death is not free. Its price is life.

Loving is different from being loved. Giving and seeing how a person flourishes and feeds off your love: the amount of power you possess, and the fact that that power makes someone the best they can be.

Fashion has nothing to do with style," said Colette in her husky voice. "It all depends on whether you want to conceal or reveal who you are.

The radiance of this beautiful scene shed a cruel light on every past horror, every insult tolerated, every unspoken retort, every gesture of rejection. Marianne was grieving, and her boundless grief made her regret every moment of cowardice in her life.

...Time had seemed infinite when she still had many years and decades ahead of her. A book waiting to be written: as a girl, that was how she had seen her future life. Now she was sixty, and the pages were blank. Infinity had passed like one long continuous day.

As long as you can walk upright, you will find a walking stick. As long as you are brave, someone will help you.

A wood that smells of the sea.

And yet, life as an autonomous woman is not a song. It’s a scream, a war; it’s a daily struggle against the easy option of obeying.

Every second can mark a new beginning. Open your eyes and see: the world is out there and it wants you.

The beach was empty, no footprints in the sand, and yet they were all there: the dead, the night and the sea. The sea offered her a song of bravery and love. It came from a long way away, as if someone somewhere in the world had sung it many years ago, for those on the shore who didn't dare to take the plunge.

He remembered what his father had said when Simon complained about the wild, unruly sea: "Learn to love it, son. Learn to love what you do, whatever it is, and you won't have any problems. You'll suffer, but then you'll feel, and when you feel, you're alive. You need troubles to be alive -- otherwise you're dead!

Nothing is colder than a heart that once blazed.

Piety is a sign that a person will do anything to be important in the world,

Oh get down from your cross: we need timber.

You cannot tell love to come and stay forever. You can only welcome it when it comes, like the summer or the autumn, and when its time is up and it’s gone, then it’s gone. The

If someone suffers and won't change, then they need to suffer.

Everything was to be experienced at the highest pitch of passion and life. To expect something greater after life was to forget that life was the greatest thing of all. He had forgotten that, and now he wanted to live with all his strength and with no further dread.

Every woman is a priestess if she loves life and can work magic on herself and those who are sacred to her. It's time for women to remind themselves of the powers they have inside. The goddess hates to see abilities go to waste, and women waste their abilities far too often.

I don’t know why we women believe that sacrificing our desires makes us more attractive to men. What on earth are we thinking? That someone who goes without her wishes deserves to be loved more than she who follows her dreams? It’s exactly what I thought. The more I sacrificed, the happier I was. The longer I went without, the stronger was my hope that Lothar would give me what I needed. I believed that if I didn’t ask for anything, made no reproaches, didn’t demand my own room or my own money, didn’t cause any arguments, the miracle would come to pass. That he would say, Oh, how much you have sacrificed! How my love for you has grown, because you sacrificed yourself for me! How crazy that was. I was so proud of myself and my capacity for suffering: I wanted to be perfect at it. The more complete my uncomplaining acquiescence became, the greater his love would one day be. And my greatest abnegation - renouncing my own life - would have secured me his undying love. Does love have to be earned through suffering?

Do you think death is the end of everything, Marie-Anne?” “I hope so,” whispered Marieanne. “Here on the Brittany coast we believe something different. Death is not something that is coming, but rather something that is all around us. Here.” Clara pointed at the air. “There.” She gestured toward the trees. Then she bent forward and took a little white sand in her hands. “Death is like this.” She let the sand trickle from her left hand into her right. “One life goes in and takes a break in death.” Now she let the sand run out of her right hand onto the ground. “Another life comes out. It makes a journey, oui? Like flowing water. Water in a moulin. In a mill. Death is that short break.

She was in Paris, in a dazzlingly lit hospital room, listening to music on the radio. Music you wanted to dance to. She saw old men dancing with young women; she saw a long, richly laid table, laughing children and apple trees, the sunlight on the sea at the horizon; she saw blue shutters on old thatched sandstone cottages. When she opened her eyes, the vision had come true. She felt the warmth of the sunshine, and a wave of infinite gratitude swept through her.

He sees stones as a counterweight to dynamics, for it is only through their immobility that man's quest becomes visible. You see, without stones we wouldn't notice that we're moving and ..." Colette paused. What on earth was she babbling about? "Stones aren't immobile," said Sidonie after a while.

Official mistresses," Pascale lectured as she fed the dogs, "were the rulers of kings. They decided more questions of state with their vaginas than historians would care to admit.

Every woman is a priestess if she loves life and can work magic on herself and those who are sacred to her. It’s time for women to remind themselves of the powers they have inside. The goddess hates to see abilities go to waste, and women waste their abilities far too often.

E-keit ma vi en da sav, e kavi bazh d’en em harpañ,” Emile whispered, as if reading her mind. As long as you can walk upright, you will find a walking stick. As long as you are brave, someone will help you.

As long as you can walk, you will find a walking stick. As long as you are brave, someone will help you.

And it began when you first took a risk, failed and realized that you’d survived the failure. With that knowledge, you could risk anything. Marianne

There's no messing with perfection. (Okay, a little messing, just for fun.) A few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil, and a sprig or two of purple basil. Sliced and layered in a white ceramic dish, the tomatoes often match the hues of the local sunsets--- reds and golds, yellows and pinks. If there were such a thing in our house as "too pretty to eat," this would be it. Thankfully, there's not. If I'm not exactly cooking, I have done some impromptu matchmaking: baby tomatoes with smoked mozzarella, red onions, fennel, and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato with a local sheep's milk cheese and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with pale green artichoke puree and slivers of Parmesan. I constructed the whole thing to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro: Millefeuille de tomate provençale, tapenade d'artichaut et coppa de parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade, sauce aigre douce aux abricots. And of course, since this is a snooty Parisian bistro and half their clientele are Russian businessmen, the English translation would be printed just below: Tomato napoleon of artichoke tapenade and aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese on a bed of mixed greens with sweet-and-sour apricot vinaigrette. The sauce abricot was a happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since I didn't realize my mistake until it was at the bottom of the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with Dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice--- much sweeter than a French vinaigrette, more like an American-style honey Dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because, believe it or not, Parisian bistros love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris in the past five years will note the rise of le Tchizzberger. (That's bistro for "cheeseburger.") I'm moderate in my use of social media, but I can't stop taking pictures of the tomatoes. Close up, I've taken to snapping endless photos of the voluptuously rounded globes. I rejoice in the mingling of olive oil and purply-red flesh. Basil leaves rest like the strategically placed tassels of high-end strippers. Crystals of sea salt catch the afternoon sun like rhinestones under the glaring lights of the Folies Bergère. I may have invented a whole new type of food photography: tomato porn.

Didn't they say that beauty was a state of soul? And if her soul was loved, a woman would be transformed into a wondrous creature, however ordinary her looks. Love changed a woman's soul, and she became beautiful, for a few minutes or forever.

Maybe friendship was the most patient kind of love.

Sometimes other people recognize us before we do.

How I would have loved to wear something red. I wish I had fought. She got up. It wasn’t too late: she could still do what she wanted, and she wanted to do it in Kerdruc.

Paul knew that refusing to dance with a woman was tantamount to ignoring an important aspect of her personality, a slight that she would never fully forget. That was because she had something to offer—her devotion—and she would never truly reveal her soul to a man who didn’t dance with her.

It was easier to hate than to love when your love wasn’t wanted.

What none of the death-bound could forgive themselves for was what they had left undone. On their deathbeds all had confessed this to Marianne: the things they hadn’t done, the things they hadn’t dared to do.

Court bouillon, made with carrot, shallot, leek, garlic, celeriac, herbs, water and Muscadet, was the heart and soul of Breton cuisine. Langoustines blossomed in it, and crabs drowned in bliss; skinned duck or vegetables simmered in it to perfection. The stock grew stronger with each use and would keep for three days. It formed the base for sauces, and a shot glass of sieved court bouillon could turn a mediocre fish stew into a regular feast.

That evening there would be buckwheat pancakes and cider, steak frites and lamb cutlets, scampi and quiche, fish soup and lobster, cheese, lavender ice cream, mutton for the locals, and oysters, oysters and more oysters for the tourists.

I loved your grandfather, and after him, no one else. It is a rare form of happiness when a man makes your life so rich that you need no one else after him.

The sea’s voice whispered inside her: You’re finally awakening.

There was virtually nothing more erotic for certain men than trying to cure a woman of a rival. A cat, egotistical and devoted and yet wolf-like, brazen in her ingenuous passion and as elegant as a queen. In love there was only yes or no. No I-don't-know, no maybes; those were merely nos in disguise.

music. Music was like a film that she watched on the back of her closed eyelids, and Satie’s music conjured up images of the sea, even though she had never been to the seaside.

You have to listen when the land speaks to you. The stones tell of souls that wept as they passed, the grass whispers of the people who have walked on it, the wind brings you the voices of those you have loved. And the sea knows the name of every person who has ever died.

To expect something greater after life was to forget that life was the greatest thing of all.

People never change!" Marianne retorted. "We forget ourselves, and when we rediscover ourselves, we merely imagine that we have changed. That's not true, though. You can't change dreams; you can only kill them-and some of us are very good murderers.

Every woman is a priestess,” she said abruptly. “Every single one.” She turned to Marianne, her eyes clear as water. “The major religions and their shepherds have assigned to women a position that isn’t ours making us second class citizens. The goddess became God, priestesses where whores, and any woman who put up resistance was branded a witch. And the special quality of each woman – her intelligence, her capacity for augury, healing, and sensuality – was, and still is, debased.” She brushed off the soil that was hardening on her trousers. “Every woman is a priestess if she loves life and can work magic on herself and those who are sacred to her. It’s time for women to remind themselves of the powers they have inside. The goddess hates to see abilities go to waste, and women waste their abilities far too often.

After all, it's life that carries the greatest risk of death, so wouldn't it be better to do some living first?