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Henryk Sienkiewicz Biography

Henryk Sienkiewicz

Henryk Adam Aleksander Pius Sienkiewicz (Polish: [ˈxɛnrɨk ˈadam alɛˈksandɛr ˈpʲus ɕɛnˈkʲevʲit͡ʂ]; also known by the pseudonym "Litwos" [ˈlitfɔs]; 5 May 1846 – 15 November 1916) was a Polish journalist, novelist and Nobel Prize laureate. He is best remembered for his historical novels, especially for his internationally known best-seller Quo Vadis (1896).

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Henryk Sienkiewicz Quotes

Amid the stillness of the night, in the depths of the ravine, from the direction in which the corpses lay suddenly resounded a kind of inhuman, frightful laughter in which quivered despair, and joy, and cruelty, and suffering, and pain, and sobbing, and derision; the heart-rending and spasmodic laughter of the insane or condemned.

Derision, Frightful, Heart, Inhuman, Laughter, Pain

It is an altogether wrong idea that the modern product of civilization is less susceptible to love. I sometimes think it is the other way.

Civilization, Ideas, Love, Product, Thinking, Way

Anxiety prepares the organism badly for an ordeal which even under more favorable circumstances would not be an easy thing to bear.

Anxiety, Bears, Circumstances, Easy, Favorable, Organism

The sky is one whole, the water another; and between those two infinities the soul of man is in loneliness.

Loneliness, Lonely, Men, Sky, Soul, Water

England is never in a hurry because she is eternal.

England, Eternal, Hurry

I consider that in dialectics I am the equal of Socrates. As to women, I agree that each has three or four souls, but none of them a reasoning one.

Four, Reasoning, Socrates, Soul, Three, Women

On an exhausted field, only weeds grow.

Exhausted, Fields, Grow, Marijuana, Weed, Weeds

There is probably no greater idler than myself. And I would consider myself a lazy-bones if I did not write so many volumes, and if I did not admire my diligence once I begin writing.

Greater, Idlers, Lazy, Volumes, Write, Writing

If the infinity of the sea may call out thus, perhaps when a man is growing old, calls come to him, too, from another infinity still darker and more deeply mysterious; and the more he is wearied by life the dearer are those calls to him.

Dearer, Growing, Man, Men, Sea, Wearied

In the meantime the groans changed into the protracted, thunderous roar by which all living creatures are struck with terror, and the nerves of people, who do not know what fear is, shake, just as the window-panes rattle from distant cannonading.

Fear, Meantime, Nerves, People, Protracted, Window Panes

An excessive preponderance of an idealistic mood is harmful to society: it creates daydreaming, political Don Quixotism, hope for heavenly intervention. This is an undeniable truth--but it is also true that every extreme is harmful.

Daydreaming, Mood, Political, Preponderance, Society

The profession of the writer has its thorns about which the reader does not dream.

Doe, Dream, Profession, Reader, Thorns

Nevertheless, in this sea of human wretchedness and malice there bloomed at times compassion, as a pale flower blooms in a putrid marsh.

Bloomed, Compassion, Flower, Malice, Sea, Times

I know that even the meanest person has still at his disposition high-sounding words wherewith to mask his real character.

Character, Mask, Person, Real, Words

Life deserves laughter, hence people laugh at it.

Laugh, Laughing, Laughter, People

There is within us a moral instinct which forbids us to rejoice at the death of even an enemy.

Enemy, Instinct, Moral

The fact is that between the classes there is a vast gulf that precludes all mutual understanding, and makes simultaneous efforts simply impossible.

Class, Classes, Effort, Fact, Gulf, Understanding

A man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful picture, but likewise human documents that may be relied upon.

Faithful, Giving, Memoirs, Men, Renders, Service

Every novelist should write something for children at least once in his lifetime.

Children, Lifetime, Novelist, Novelists, Writing

I know from experience that to one who thinks much and feels deeply, it often seems that he has only to put down his thoughts and feelings in order to produce something altogether out of the common; yet as soon as he sets to work he falls into a certain mannerism of style and common phraseology; his thoughts do not come spontaneously, and one might almost say that it is not the mind that directs the pen, but the pen leads the mind into common, empty artificiality.

Fall, Feelings, Leads, Order, Thinking, Thoughts

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