Gustave Flaubert may have been one of the first writers to ever articulate what it means to be dyslexic.
I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.
Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.
A superhuman will is needed in order to write, and I am only a man.
In many ways, Flaubert was an oxymoron. Legendary for his use of style in writing, he nonetheless struggled with the written word throughout his life. He commented often and emphatically about his inadequacies. And yet, his devotion to his craft allowed him to use the strengths of dyslexia to his advantage.
All one’s inventions are true, you can be sure of that. Poetry is as exact a science as geometry.
Life must be a constant education; one must learn everything, from speaking to dying.
One arrives at style only with atrocious effort, with fanatical and devoted stubbornness.
He summed up his perspective of life in this way.
The most glorious moments in your life are not the so-called days of success, but rather those days when out of dejection and despair you feel rise in you a challenge to life, and the promise of future accomplishments.