Provence Quotes

“The point of civilization is to be civilized; the purpose of action is to perpetuate society, for only in society can philosophy truly take place.”
― Iain Pears, The Dream of Scipio

“Apart from the peace and emptiness of the landscape, there is a special smell about winter in Provence which is accentuated by the wind and the clean, dry air. Walking in the hills, I was often able to smell a house before I could see it, because of the scent of woodsmoke coming from an invisible chimney. It is one of the most primitive smells in life, and consequently extinct in most cities, where fire regulations and interior decorators have combined to turn fireplaces into blocked-up holes or self-consciously lit "architectural features." The fireplace in Provence is still used - to cook on, to sit around, to warm the toes, and to please the eye - and fires are laid in the early morning and fed throughout the day with scrub oak from the Luberon or beech from the foothills of Mont Ventoux. Coming home with the dogs as dusk fell, I always stopped to look from the top of the valley at the long zigzag of smoke ribbons drifting up from the farms that are scattered along the Bonnieux road. It was a sight that made me think of warm kitchens and well-seasoned stews, and it never failed to make me ravenous.”
― Peter Mayle, A Year in Provence

“Don't wanna ever take your shoes off in coconut land. Never know when you're gonna have to run.”
― Dianne Harman, Coyote in Provence

“The French don't snack. They will tear off the endo of a fres baguette (which, if it's warm, it's practically impossible to resist) and eat it as they leave the boulangerie. And that's usually all you will see being consumed on the street. Compare that with the public eating and drinking that goes on in America: pizza, hot dogs, nachos, tacos, heroes, potato chips, sandwiches, jerricans of coffee, half-gallon buckets of Coke (Diet, of cours) and heaven knows what else being demolished on the hoof, often on the way to the aerobic class.”
― Peter Mayle

“The people of Provence greeted spring with uncharacteristic briskness, as if nature had given everyone an injection of sap.”
― Peter Mayle, A Year in Provence

“Perhaps some fortunate fish have known it, but for human beings it is rare to float at the bottom of the deeps and yet breathe with rapture the smells of all the living things spread out to sell in the pure, filtered, moving air."
--"Two Kitchens in Provence" (1966)”
― M.F.K. Fisher, As They Were: Autobiographical Essays

“Have my moments, Doll, have my moments.”
― Dianne Harman Coyote in Provence

“Blonde hair and blue eyes," she repeated. "The lavender fairy."
"Now, hang on a minute!"
"Just like the lavender fairy has. There's an old story about the beautiful fairy called Lavandula who was born in the wild lavender of the Lure mountain. She grew up and began to wander further from the mountain, looking for somewhere special to make her home. One day she came across the stony, uncultivated landscapes of Haute Provence, and the pitiful sight made her so sad she cried hot tears- hot mauve tears that fell into the ground and stained it. And that is where, ever afterwards, the lavender of her birthplace began to grow.”
― Deborah Lawrenson, The Sea Garden

“Daar bracht hij zijn dagen door: in de koelte van zijn werkkamer. Als een monnik, ver van het rumoer van feestende vrienden in de tuin, van het luidruchtige gestoei in het zwembad, van het aanslepende gezeur van de krekels. Daar overwon hij de eenzaamheid waar alle schrijvers van vergaan, met maagpijn pennend tot de letters voor zijn ogen begonnen te tollen.”
― Patrick Conrad, getande raadsels: herinneringen aan Hugo Claus

“The year began with lunch.”
― Peter Mayle

“So, Slade, the swearing, the poor english and everything else is just a facade. You're really quite a deep and intelligent man, aren't you?”
― Dianne Harman Coyote in Provence

“She was learning that being with Slade was like riding a roller coaster. Good news one minute and bad news the next. She could only imagine what this restaurant must be like.”
― Dianne Harman Coyote in Provence

“She went weak in the knees and could barely walk as she followed him, trembling with fear. Her hopes for a happy future with Jordan came crashing down. Whoever had told Jordan she was free to travel under the name of Maria Brooks must have misled him.”
― Dianne Harman Cornered Coyote

“There exists a bastard cuisine that is too often assumed to be real French cooking.”
― Richard Olney

“Je suis né dans la ville d'Aubagne, sous le Garlaban couronné de chèvres, au temps des derniers chevriers.”
― Marcel Pagnol, La Gloire de mon père

“In Aix we take pride in cultivating our minds, it’s our desire and tradition to do so’, claimed Maurice Gontard. He pointed out that the great Provençal poet, Frederic Mistral, had originally found Aix rather cold, but had finally declared that there was a ‘certain charm to the place’. Music had always played an important role in Aix and there were many active musical societies. The theatre was well frequented, there was a university and various local heritage and language societies to keep the past alive, to show that Aix had its own cultural identity.”
― Jean-Bernard Naudin, Cezanne and the Provençal Table

“In the empty halls of the castle now abandoned and silenced by time, they waltzed cheek to cheek over the ancient floor of dust with unknown stories buried deep in the soil below.”
― Pamela L Hamilton, Lady Be Good Lib/E: The Life and Times of Dorothy Hale

“In the empty halls of the castle now abandoned and silenced by time, they waltzed cheek to cheek over the ancient floor of dust with unknown stories buried deep in the soil below.”
― Pamela Hamilton, Lady Be Good: The Life and Times of Dorothy Hale

“The oblong tower of the church, with its wrought-iron steeple, caught the last reflections of the sun against the hills. This is what a cinematographer would call the golden hour, the glowing time just after the sun sinks below the horizon and before the dark sets in. It's the watercolor skies--- discreet layers of cotton-candy pink, dusky rose, and periwinkle, when the fields are their deepest green, and the wheat has a halo that rises from the surface. We were standing on the medieval ramparts, the walls that once protected this small community from the hostilities of the outside world. Just below us was a field of lavender, the rows tidy and symmetrical. Just behind, a hedge of rosemary bushes. In the distance I could make out the summit of Reillanne, golden city on a hill.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“When we'd arrived in Céreste, our neighbor Arnaud said we should go to the Musée de Salagon, in Mane. In addition to its twelfth-century church and Gallo-Roman ruins, the museum has a wonderful medieval garden. The monks used these herbs to heal as well as to flavor. I've met many people in Provence who use herbal remedies, not because it's trendy, but because it's what their grandmothers taught them. My friend Lynne puts lavender oil on bug bites to reduce the swelling; I recently found Arnaud on his front steps tying small bundles of wild absinthe, which he burns to fumigate the house. Many of the pharmacies in France still sell licorice root for low blood pressure. We drink lemon verbena herbal tea for digestion.
I also like the more poetic symbolism of the herbs. I'm planting sage for wisdom, lavender for tenderness (and, according to French folklore, your forty-sixth wedding anniversary), rosemary for remembrance. Thyme is for courage, but there is also the Greek legend that when Paris kidnapped Helen of Troy, each tear that fell to the ground sprouted a tuft of thyme. All things being equal, I prefer courage to tears in my pot roast.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Mushroom hunting in Provence is veiled in secrecy, second only to truffle hunting in the level of dissimulation and suspicion it inspires. If you are lucky enough to find a good spot, you might unearth skinny yellow and black trompettes de la mort (trumpets of death) or flat meaty pleurots (oyster mushrooms) or even small spongelike black morels. If you are not sure exactly what you've found, you can take your basket to the local pharmacy, and the pharmacist will help you sort the culinary from the potentially deadly--- it's part of their training.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Just as the first sun-kissed apricots arrive at the market, lavender fields all over Provence are bursting into bloom. They are a perfect pair.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“If I think about it, there's almost no one we know who hasn't contributed in some way. The logo--- Scaramouche with his sword inside an ice cream swirl--- was done by a local graphic designer, the husband of the director of the village crèche. The sewing lady across the street made the cushions for the bench inside the shop. We get the three-liter bidons of fruity olive oil for our rosemary-olive oil-pine nut ice cream at the butcher, and the saffron, bien sûr, from Didier and Martine in Reillane. Mr. Simondi, whose farm is down the hill near Marion, has promised to hand-pick our melons for sorbet when the time comes. Angela has become our gardener in chief, making sure the terrace is full of bright spring flowers.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes