Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry.

Snicker on hearing his name: 'the gentleman who thinks we are descended from the apes.'

But, in her life, nothing was going to happen. Such was the will of God! The future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted.

Years passed; and he endured the idleness of his intelligence and the inertia of his heart.

Madame Bovary is myself.

Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings,--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss.

Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom