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

He would have quoted Chinese or Green­land­ish had he known those two lan­guages, for he was in one of those crises in which the whole soul shows in­dis­tinctly what it con­tains, like the ocean, which, in the storm, opens it­self from the sea­weeds on its shores down to the sands of its abysses.

even strove not to love her; then, when he heard the creak­ing of her boots, he turned cow­ard, like drunk­ards at the sight of strong drinks.

like a trav­el­ler who leaves some­thing of his wealth at every inn along his road.

It was a mar­vel to him.

an en­graver’s shop on the boulevard there is an Italian print of one of the Muses. She is draped in a tu­nic, and she is look­ing at the moon, with for­get-me-nots in her flow­ing hair. So­mething drove me there con­tinu­ally; I stayed there hours to­gether

slip­pers,” a gift of Léon’s, a whim she had had. They were pink satin, bordered with swans­down.

He went up, opened the door, entered—What an em­brace!
Then, after the kisses, the words gushed forth. They told each other the sor­rows of the week, the presen­ti­ments, the anxi­ety for the let­ters; but now everything was for­got­ten;