“ At length I saw tears starting from her beauteous eyes—perfidious tears! 'Oh heavens!' I cried, 'my dearest Manon, why allow your sorrows to afflict you to this degree without imparting their cause to me?' She answered me only with sighs, which increased my misery. I arose trembling from my seat: I conjured her, with all the urgent earnestness of love, to let me know the cause of her grief: I wept in endeavouring to soothe her sorrows: I was more dead than alive. A barbarian would have pitied my sufferings as I stood trembling with grief and apprehension. ”
abbé Prévost
Biographical details
Antoine François Prévost, known as the Abbé Prévost (1697–1763), was a French novelist, historian, and Benedictine priest whose works examine themes of love, ethical dilemmas, and human vulnerability. Best known for Manon Lescaut, a story of desire and moral decline within the Mémoires et aventures d'un homme de qualité, he also wrote Le Philosophe anglais and translated English literature, notably Samuel Richardson’s Pamela.
His stories combine psychological insight with social commentary, reflecting his own complex life. Prévost’s influence stems from his merging of romantic emotion with ethical reflection, securing his position as a key figure in 18th-century French literature.
Quotes by abbé Prévost
“ It was then that honour and virtue made me feel the most poignant remorse, and that I recalled with bitterness Amiens, my father's house, St. Sulpice, and every spot where I had ever lived in happy innocence. By what a terrific interval was I now separated from that blessed state! I beheld it no longer but as a dim shadow in the distance, still attracting my regrets and desires, but without the power of rousing me to exertion. 'By what fatality,' said I, 'have I become thus degraded? Love is not a guilty passion! why then has it been to me the source of profligacy and distress? ”
“ At last we agreed for half that sum—all that my purse contained. "I tried to console Manon as we went along, but despair was rankling in my own heart. I should have destroyed myself a thousand times over, if I had not felt that I held in my arms all that could attach me to life: this reflection reconciled me. 'I possess her at least,' said I; 'she loves me! she is mine! Vainly does Tiberge call this a mere phantom of happiness.' I could, without feeling interest or emotion, see the whole world besides perish around me. Why? Because I have in it no object of affection beyond her. ”
