Madame Bovary

“Has it ever happened to you,” Léon went on, “to come across some vague idea of one’s own in a book, some dim im­age that comes back to you from afar, and as the com­pletest ex­pres­sion of your own slight­est sen­ti­ment

She wished at the same time to die and to live in Paris.

in a stammering voice

In her life’s isol­a­tion she centered on the child’s head all her shattered, broken little van­it­ies.

see­ing that she was hasten­ing to of­fer her­self to that which but a while ago had so angered her, not in the least con­scious of her pros­ti­tu­tion.

For this was how they would have wished to be, each set­ting up an ideal to which

for his ar­ron­disse­ment

For him the uni­verse did not ex­tend bey­ond the cir­cum­fer­ence of her pet­ti­coat

hu­man speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we ham­mer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to move the stars.

We must not touch our idols; the gilt sticks to our fin­gers.