She loved the sea only for its storms, and greenery only…

“Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blending with the fiction, playing with the details, follows the outline of the…

— Gustave Flaubert

“We must not touch our idols; the gilt sticks to our fingers.”

— Gustave Flaubert

“Desiderava al tempo stesso morire e vivere a Parigi.”

— Gustave Flaubert

“Dar cum sa vorbesti despre un rau care nu poate fi descris,care isi schimba infatisarea ca norii, care se involbureaza ca vantul?”

— Gustave Flaubert

“Accustomed to the calm aspects of things, she turned, instead, toward the more tumultuous. She loved the sea only for its storms, and greenery…

— Gustave Flaubert

“One thinks of nothing,’ he continued; ‘the hours slip by. Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blinding with the…

— Gustave Flaubert

She loved the sea for its storms alone, cared for vegetation only when it grew here and there among ruins. She had to extract…

— Gustave Flaubert

“The smooth folds of her dress concealed a tumultuous heart, and her modest lips told nothing of her torment. She was in love.”

— Gustave Flaubert

“You should wait, William," Miss Frost said. "The time to read Madame Bovary is when your romantic hopes and desires have crashed, and you…

— John Irving

I loved the sea. I loved steamers and sailboats and surf and sailors. And I yearned and strained to the sea, always the sea,…

— L. Ron Hubbard

“They loved the sea. They taught themselves to sail, to navigate and read the weather. Without their mother's knowledge and long before she thought…

— James Carlos Blake

“She loved the sea. She liked the sharp salty smell of the air, and the vastness of the horizons bounded only by a vault…

— George R.R. Martin

I loved being at sea: the sights, the sounds, the food, the sunshine, the people, and the work.

— Jane McDonald

“She thoroughly felt the pitch and roll of the ship as it traveled southerly across the ocean. It was a pleasant feeling, an ancient…

— Victoria A. Kahler

Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.

— Gustave Flaubert