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 โ dust of which he breathed the sweet and tender perfume with delight.
Gustave FlaubertAs you get older, the heart shed its leaves like a tree. You cannot hold out against certain winds. Each day tears away a few more leaves; and then there are the storms that break off several branches at one go. And while natureโs greenery grows back again in the spring, that of the heart never grows back.
Gustave Flaubert