Madame Bovary Is Myself.

When You Reduce A Woman To Writing, She Makes You Think Of A Thousand Other Women

She Would Have Liked Not To Be Alive, Or To Be Always Asleep.

Better To Work For Yourself Alone. You Do As You Like And Follow Your Own Ideas, You Admire Yourself And Please Yourself: Isn’t That The Main Thing? And Then The Public Is So Stupid. Besides, Who Reads? And What Do They Read? And What Do They Admire?

One Day, I Shall Explode Like An Artillery Shell And All My Bits Will Be Found On The Writing Table.

She Did Not Believe That Things Could Remain The Same In Different Places, And Since The Portion Of Her Life That Lay Behind Her Had Been Bad, No Doubt That Which Remained To Be Lived Would Be Better.