A Quote by Jean de La Fontaine

The fastidious are unfortunate; nothing satisfies them. — © Jean de La Fontaine
The fastidious are unfortunate; nothing satisfies them.
The fastidious are unfortunate: nothing can satisfy them. [Lat., Les delicats sont malheureux, Rien ne saurait les satisfaire.]
By this means we presume we have established for ever, a true and legitimate marriage between the Empirical and Rational faculty; whose fastidious and unfortunate divorce and separation hath troubled and disordered the whole race and generation of mankind.
As we grow older, we live more coarsely, we relax a little in our disciplines, and, to some extent, cease to obey our finest instincts. But we should be fastidious to the extreme of sanity, disregarding the gibes of those who are more unfortunate than ourselves.
I've spent so long on some paintings that I no longer know what to think of them, and I am definitely getting harder to please; nothing satisfies me.
Things go in waves, and I might make a record every three years. That's enough for me, that satisfies me. And it satisfies the so-called public, because they don't really need a record every year. They don't even want one. There's other stuff out there for them to listen to.
Sometimes, people who are very fastidious about what they're going to do in their work are not very fastidious in their private life. I'm like that. I love it when people do really nice things around me, but I don't have time to do it for myself. It's very hard for me to even buy a new pair of trousers.
Nothing satisfies an individual incapable of enjoyment.
We live in a culture where everything tastes good but nothing satisfies.
... nothing satisfies the craving of most women so much as scandal.
Christianity satisfies suddenly and perfectly man's ancestral instinct for being the right way up; satisfies it supremely in this, that by its creed Joy becomes something gigantic, and Sadness something special and small.
Indeed, men never know how to love. nothing satisfies them. All they know is to dream, to imagine new duties, to look for new countries and new homes. While we women, we know that we must hasten to love, to share the same bed, hold hands, and fear absence. When we women love, we dream of nothing.
Egg nog. Because nothing satisfies like a cold glass of eggs.
There is nothing of permanent value (putting aside a few human affections) nothing that satisfies quiet reflection--except the sense of having worked according to one's capacity and light to make things clear and get rid of cant and shams of all sorts.
I love nothing more than a good, rich, dark chocolate. It exhilarates. It satisfies.
Love of beauty is really only the sex instinct, which nothing but complete union satisfies.
The human being who lives only for himself finally reaps nothing but unhappiness. Selfishness corrodes. Unselfishness ennobles, satisfies.
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