Gustave Flaubert

“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

Mon­sieur Ro­ger

Quin­cam­poix

Then the lusts of the flesh, the long­ing for money, and the mel­an­choly of pas­sion all blen­ded them­selves into one suf­fer­ing, and in­stead of turn­ing her thoughts from it, she clave to it the more, ur­ging her­self to pain, and seek­ing every­where oc­ca­sion for it

Her ill­ness, it ap­pears, was a kind of fog that she had in her head, and the doc­tors could not do any­thing, nor the priest either. When she was taken too bad she went off quite alone to the sea­shore, so that the cus­toms of­ficer, go­ing his rounds, of­ten found her ly­ing flat on her face, cry­ing on the shingle. Then, after her mar­riage, it went off, they say.”
“But with me,” replied Emma, “it was after mar­riage that it began.

eem so, be­cause in the midst of the world I know how to wear the mask of a scoffer upon my face; and yet, how many a time at the sight of a cemetery by moon­light have I not asked my­self whether it were not bet­ter to join those sleep­ing there!”
“Oh! and your friends?” she said. “You do not think of them.”
“My friends! What friends? Have I any? Who cares for me?” And he ac­com­pan­ied the last words with a kind of whist­ling of the lips.

I have noth­ing in the world! you are all to me; so shall I be to you. I will be your people, your coun­try; I will tend, I will love you!”

How she longed for the in­ef­fable sen­ti­ments of love that she had tried to fig­ure to her­self out of books! The first month of her mar­riage, her rides in the wood, the vis­count that waltzed, and Lagardy singing, all re­

No mat­ter! She was not happy—she never had been. Whence came this in­suf­fi­ciency in life—this

in­stant­an­eous turn­ing to de­cay of everything on which she leant? But if there were some­where a be­ing strong and beau­ti­ful, a vali­ant nature, full at once of ex­al­ta­tion and re­fine­ment, a poet’s heart in an an­gel’s form, a lyre with sound­ing chords ringing out ele­giac epi­tha­lamia to heaven, why, per­chance, should she not find him? Ah! how im­possible! Besides, noth­ing was worth the trouble of seek­ing it; everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of bore­dom, every joy a curse, all pleas­ure sati­ety, and the sweetest kisses left upon