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

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.

As op­posed to the ma­ter­nal ideas, he had a cer­tain virile idea of child­hood on which he sought to mould his son

Lively once, ex­pans­ive and af­fec­tion­ate, in grow­ing older she had be­come (after the fash­ion of wine that, ex­posed to air, turns to vin­egar) ill-tempered, grumbling, ir­rit­able

But he wiped his face with one hand and con­tin­ued mo­tion­less, his eyes lowered.

In the even­ing, at pre­par­a­tion, he pulled out his pens from his desk, ar­ranged his small be­long­ings, and care­fully ruled his pa­per.

He wore stout, ill-cleaned, hob­nailed boots

She con­stantly com­plained of her nerves, her chest, her liver. The noise of foot­steps made her ill; when people left her, solitude be­came odi­ous to her; if they came back, it was doubt­less to see her die.