An author in his book must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere.

Flaubert formulated this ideal while developing his doctrine of artistic “impersonality” in the mid-19th century, especially during the long, exacting composition of *Madame Bovary* (published 1857). In letters to his confidante Louise Colet, he repeatedly argues that the novelist should efface personal opinions and authorial intrusion, letting structure, style, and the internal logic of the work create meaning. The remark reflects his reaction against overtly didactic or sentimental narration and aligns with his pursuit of an objective, meticulously crafted realism in which the author’s hand is everywhere in the design but nowhere explicitly declared.

The comparison to God captures a paradox: the author must exercise total creative control—shaping characters, events, tone, and moral atmosphere—yet remain “invisible,” refraining from direct commentary or self-display. For Flaubert, the highest artistry lies in a seamless illusion of reality where judgments emerge from the arrangement of details rather than from authorial preaching. The line also implies a rigorous ethic of form: style becomes the vehicle of meaning, and the author’s personality is sublimated into composition. It has become a touchstone for modern narrative technique, anticipating later ideals of “show, don’t tell” and the impersonal narrator.