‘How miserable I am! The excessive warmth of this Paris spring and its mugginess make me feel like nothing so much as a wretched wild animal condemned to live in the zoo. They sell primroses and yellow daisies and daffodils by barrowloads here.’

– Colette, Claudine in Paris

‘To write is to pour one’s innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one’s hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god who guides it – and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered branch and a stunted flower.’

– Colette, Vagabond