Andre Gide
Andre Gide
André Paul Guillaume Gidewas a French author and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1947 "for his comprehensive and artistically significant writings, in which human problems and conditions have been presented with a fearless love of truth and keen psychological insight". Gide's career ranged from its beginnings in the symbolist movement, to the advent of anticolonialism between the two World Wars...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionAutobiographer
Date of Birth22 November 1869
CountryFrance
Families, I hate you! Shut-in homes, closed doors, jealous possessors of happiness
To win ones joy through struggle is better than to yield to melancholy.
In order to be utterly happy the only thing necessary is to refrain from comparing this moment with other moments in the past, which I often did not fully enjoy because I was comparing them with other moments of the future.
Money cannot buy happiness, but it can make you awfully comfortable while you're being miserable. Nothing prevents happiness like the memory of happiness.
Through loyalty to the past, our mind refuses to realize that tomorrow's joy is possible only if today's makes way for it; that each wave owes the beauty of its line only to the withdrawal of the preceding one.
Nothing is more fatal to happiness than the remembrance of happiness.
One doesn't discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time
The belief that becomes truth for me - is that which allows me the best use of my strength, the best means of putting my virtues into action
Most often people seek in life occasions for persisting in their opinions rather than for educating themselves.
The miser puts his gold pieces into a coffer; but as soon as the coffer is closed, it is as if it were empty.
The most decisive actions of our life - I mean those that are most likely to decide the whole course of our future - are, more often than not, unconsidered.
You have to let other people be right' was his answer to their insults. 'It consoles them for not being anything else.
The loveliest creations of men are persistently painful. What would be the description of happiness?
I do not love men: I love what devours them.