He loved a book because it was a book; he loved its odor, its form, its title. What he loved in a manuscript was its old illegible date, the bizarre and strange Gothic characters, the heavy gilding which loaded its drawings. It was its pages covered with dust — dust of which he breathed the sweet and tender perfume with delight.
Gustave FlaubertWriting this book I am like a man playing the piano with lead balls attached to his knuckles.
Gustave Flaubert