Rabelais wrote Gargantua here, in this city devoted to the most Pantagruelian of pleasures.
It is there observed that Rabelais tells the same story of a farmer and the Devil.
A comment of Rabelais in his Pantagruel, adds to the general reproach.
The glory and value of Rabelais, as in the case of all great men, all illustrious names, have long been vigorously disputed.
The laugh is more delicate, but no less hearty than Rabelais's.
Rabelais, before its secularisation, was one of its canons, and Catherine de Medicis once possessed a chteau on its site.
Does not Rabelais contend that good wine is the best physic?'
In Rabelais we find the first appearance of realism, which bore rich fruit in later scientific education.
Rabelais is not Rabelais, just as life is not life, without it.
In spite of the indefinable grace of his obsolete language, one can hardly read twenty pages of Rabelais in succession.