Extreme Unction

"The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forward her neck as one who is athirst, and glueing her lips to the body of the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiring strength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given. Then he recited the Misereatur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right thumb in the oil, and began to give extreme unction. First upon the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon the nostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous odours; then upon the mouth, that had uttered lies, that had curled with pride and cried out in lewdness; then upon the hands that had delighted in sensual touches; and finally upon the soles of the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy her desires, and that would now walk no more."

Practicing Virtue

"Disdainful of honours, of titles, and of academies, like one of the old Knight-Hospitallers, generous, fatherly to the poor, and practising virtue without believing in it, he would almost have passed for a saint if the keenness of his intellect had not caused him to be feared as a demon." (Flaubert)

Nothing Worth the Trouble

"She was not happy--she never had been. Whence came this insufficiency in life--this instantaneous turning to decay of everything on which she leaned? 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 your lips only the unattainable desire for a greater delight." (Flaubert)

"Nonetheless she was not happy, had never been happy. Why then was life so inadequate? Why did she feel this instantaneous decay of the things she relied on? If there existed somewhere a strong and hansome being, a valiant nature imbued with both exaltation and refinement, the heart of a poet in the shape of an angel, a lyre with strings of bronze, souding elegiac nuptial songs toward the heavens -- why, why could she not find him? How impossible it seemed! And anyway, nothing was worth looking for; everying was a lie. Each smile hid a yawn of boredom, each joy a curse, each pleasure its aftermatch of disgust, and the best of kisses left on your lifps only the unattainable desire for a higher delight." (Flaubert, Bucccaneer Books translation, pg. 267)

We Must Not Touch Our Idols

"One must not touch idols; the gilt rubs off on one's hands." (Flaubert, Buccaneer Books translation, pg. 265).

"We must not touch our idols; the gilt sticks to our fingers." (Flaubert, Google Books, pg. 261)

A Cracked Kettle

"The human language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out a tune for a dancing bear, when we hope with our music to move the stars." (Flaubert, pg. 188)