None of us can ever express the exact measure of her needs or her thoughts or her sorrows ... human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.
At last she was going to know the joys of love, the fever of the happiness she had despaired of. She was entering a marvelous realm where all would be passion, ecstasy, rapture: she was in the midst of an endless blue expanse, scaling the glittering heights of passion; everyday life had receded, and lay far below, in the shadows between those peaks.
Her life was as cold as an attic facing north; and boredom, like a silent spider, was weaving its web in the shadows, in every corner of her heart.
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT 1856 - Madame Bovary
"Vita, passione, morte della signora Bovary"
Life, Passion, Death of Mrs Bovary
watercolors, gouache, ink on cotton paper cm 65x50
