François-Auguste-René de Chateaubriand Quotes

The Memoirs from Beyond the Grave have come to be considered a classic of French literature as much for the elegiac beauty of their language as for the way they capture an age. If they are the recollections of a sometime ambassador, a part-time politician, and a onetime celebrity, they are also the masterwork of an artist in consummate control of his prose. The person who writes that, on the day of his birth, his mother “inflicted” life on him, who makes up a meeting with George Washington and has the gall to declare that the first president “resembled his portraits,” has picked up the plume for more complicated reasons than the urge to compose a record of his times. The seductiveness of the Memoirs’ style — what Barthes calls the “vivid, sumptuous, desirable seal of Chateaubriand’s writing” — makes questions of factual authenticity seem piddling. The voice of the Memoirs is the voice of the private man behind the public façade, the grown-up boy who left home out of fear and in search of the Northwest Passage, the death-haunted exile, the solitary writer at his desk at night, who knew that he had to imagine himself and his world into being, as if everywhere were America, a second space and a dominion of dreams.

When, in the silence of abjection, no sound remains except the rattle of the slave’s chain and the informer’s voice; when everyone trembles before the tyrant and it is as dangerous to curry his favor as to incur his disapproval, the historian appears, entrusted with the wrath of nations. Nero prospers in vain, for Tacitus has already been born within the Empire.

Men of the trident have some games handed down to them by their ancestors: when you cross the Line, you must be “baptized.” The same ceremony takes place in the Tropics as on the banks of Newfoundland, and, whatever the locale, the leader of the masquerade is always “the Old Man of the Tropics.” Tropical and dropsical are synonymous to sailors: the Old Man of the Tropics therefore has an enormous paunch. Even under the tropical sun, he is outfitted in all the sheepskins and fur coats that the crew can find. He sits crouching on the maintop, bellowing from time to time like a wild animal. Everyone stares up at him. Then he starts climbing down the shrouds, heavy as a bear and staggering like Silenus. When he lands on deck, he roars some more, leaps, seizes a pail, fills it with water from the sea, and pours it over the head of anyone who has never crossed the Line or reached the icy latitude. You may flee below deck, leap onto the hatches, or shinny up the masts, but Old Man Tropic is always after you. It all ends with the sailors getting a large sum of drink money.

A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labour and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both.

L'histoire des peuples est une échelle de misère dont les révolutions forment les différents degrés.

Memories of the wrath of the League and the clashes of the Fronde had favored the establishment of absolute monarchy; the governments of Louis XIV's despotism, when that great prince went to relax among his ancestors in Saint-Denis, made the yearning for freedom more bitter. The old monarchy had lasted six and a half centuries with its feudal and aristocratic liberties. How long had the state formed by Louis XIV lasted? One hundred and forty years. After that monarch's tomb, there were only two monuments of monarchy: the pillow of Louis XV's debauchery and Louis XVI's executioner's block.

Aristocracy has three successive stages: the age of superiority, the age of privilege, and the age of vanity. Once through with the first, it degenerates into the second, and dies out in the third.

The original writer is not he who refrains from imitating others, but he who can be imitated by none.

There and then I promptly resolved to end, in rural exile, a career scarcely begun, in which I had already consumed centuries.

[L]ike a kingfisher I have made my nest on the waves.

La douleur n'est pas une affection qu'on épuise comme le plaisir.

Aristocracy has three successive ages, — the age of superiorities, the age of privileges, and the age of vanities; having passed out of the first, it degenerates in the second, and dies away in the third.

La vie me sied mal; le mort m'ira peut-être mieux.

Cependant mon père fut atteint d'une maladie qui le conduisit en peu de jours au tombeau. II expira dans mes bras. J'appris à connaître la mort sur les lèvres de celui qui m'avait donné la vie. Cette impression fut grande; elle dure encore. C'est la première fois que l'immortalité de l'âme s'est présentée clairement à mes yeux. Je ne pus croire que ce corps inanimé était en moi l'auteur de la pensée: je sentis qu'elle me devait venir d'une autre source; et dans une sainte douleur qui approchait de la joie, j'espérai me rejoindre un jour à l'esprit de mon père.

L’écrivain original n’est pas celui qui n’imite personne, mais celui que personne ne peut imiter.