"If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud."
— Émile Zola

"The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work."
— Émile Zola

"Civilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest."
— Émile Zola

"There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman."
— Émile Zola

"Blow the candle out, I don't need to see what my thoughts look like."
— Émile Zola (Germinal)

"Art is a corner of creation seen through a temperament."
— Émile Zola

"The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones."
— Émile Zola (The Masterpiece)

"The day is not far off when one ordinary carrot may be pregnant with revolution."
— Émile Zola

"Don't go looking at me like that because you'll wear your eyes out."
— Émile Zola (La Bête Humaine)

"The day was not far off when one solitary, original carrot might be pregnant with revolution!"
— Émile Zola

"Sin ought to be something exquisite, my dear boy."
— Émile Zola

"Je n'ai guère de souci de beauté ni de perfection... Je n'ai souci que de vie, de lutte, de fièvre."
— Émile Zola

"It [the charcuterie] was almost on the corner of the Rue Pirouette and was a joy to behold. It was bright and inviting, with touches of brilliant colour standing out amidst white marble. The signboard, on which the name QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fat gilt letter encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-hued background, was protected by a sheet of glass. On the two side panels of the shop front, similarly painted and under glass, were chubby little Cupids playing in the midst of boars' heads, pork chops, and strings of sausages; and these still lifes, adorned with scrolls and rosettes, had been designed in so pretty and tender a style that the raw meat lying there assumed the reddish tint of raspberry jam. Within this delightful frame, the window display was arranged. It was set out on a bed of fine shavings of blue paper; a few cleverly positioned fern leaves transformed some of the plates into bouquets of flowers fringed with foliage. There were vast quantities of rich, succulent things, things that melted in the mouth. Down below, quite close to the window, jars of rillettes were interspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some boned hams, nicely rounded, golden with breadcrumbs, and adorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Then came the larger dishes--stuffed Strasbourg tongues, with their red, varnished look, the colour of blood next to the pallor of the sausages and pigs' trotters; strings of black pudding coiled like harmless snakes; andouilles piled up in twos and bursting with health; saucissons in little silver copes that made them look like choristers; pies, hot from the oven, with little banner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great cuts of veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as crystallized sugar. Towards the back were large tureens in which the meats and minces lay asleep in lakes of solidified fat. Strewn between the various plates and sishes, on the bed of blue shavings, were bottles of relish, sauce, and preserved truffles, pots of foie gras, and tins of sardines and tuna fish. A box of creamy cheeses and one full of snails stuffed with butter and parsley had been dropped in each corner. Finally, at the very top of the display, falling from a bar with sharp prongs, strings of sausages and saveloys hung down symmetrically like the cords and tassels of some opulent tapestry, while behind, threads of caul were stretched out like white lacework. There, on the highest tier of this temple of gluttony, amid the caul and between two bunches of purple gladioli, the alter display was crowned by a small, square fish tank with a little ornamental rockery, in which two goldfish swam in endless circles."
— Émile Zola

"Live out Loud"
— Émile Zola

"... Have you ever reflected that posterity may not be the faultless dispenser of justice that we dream of? One consoles oneself for being insulted and denied, by reyling on the equity of the centuries to come; just as the faithful endure all the abominations of this earth in the firm belief of another life, in which each will be rewarded according to his deserts. But suppose Paradise exists no more for the artist than it does for the Catholic, suppose that future generations prolong the misunderstanding and prefer amiable little trifles to vigorous works! Ah! What a sell it would be, eh? To have led a convict's life - to have screwed oneself down to one's work - all for a mere delusion!...

"Bah! What does it matter? Well, there's nothing hereafter. We are even madder than the fools who kill themselves for a woman. When the earth splits to pieces in space like a dry walnut, our works won't add one atom to its dust."
— Émile Zola

"If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud. "
— Émile Zola

"If you ask me what I came into this world to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud"
— Émile Zola

"The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work."
— Émile Zola

"Thanks for the instruction, but gloves have their uses: you can touch all sorts of things without getting your hands dirty."
— Émile Zola