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What bliss it would have been to ascend side by side with her, his arm around her waist, while her gown would sweep the yellow leaves, listening to her voice & gazing up into her glowing eyes! The steamboat might stop, & all they would have to do was to step out of it; & yet this thing, simple as it might be, was not less difficult than it would have been to move the sun!

She was reading a slim, grey-covered volume. From time to time, the corners of her mouth lifted & a gleam of pleasure lighted up her forehead. He felt jealous of the inventor of those things which appeared to interest her so much. The more he contemplated her, the more he felt that there were yawning abysses between them. He was reflecting that he should very soon lose sight of her irrevocably...

Never had he seen such lustrous dark skin, such a seductive figure, or such delicately shaped fingers as those through which the sunlight gleamed.He stared with amazement at her work-basket, as if it were something extraordinary.What was her name,her place of residence,her life, her past? He longed to become familiar with the furniture of her apartment, all the dresses that she had worn, the people whom she visited;

He was thinking about the room he would occupy in Paris,about the plan of a drama,subjects for pictures,future passions.He found that the happiness merited by the excellence of his soul was slow in arriving.He declaimed some melancholy lines of poetry to himself; he walked with rapid step along the deck,[], he saw a gentleman addressing gallant remarks to a countrywoman, fingering the gold cross wore over her breast

A young man of 18, with long hair, holding an album under his arm, remained near the helm without moving. Through the haze he surveyed steeples, buildings of which he did not know the names; then, with a parting glance, he took in the Ile St Louis, the Cite, Notre-Dame; & presently, as Paris disappeared from his view, he heaved a deep sigh.
Frederic Moreau, having just matriculated, was returning home...

"No, we're not very nice. But this ability to assimilate oneself to all kinds of suffering and unhappiness and to suppose oneself to be sharing them is perhaps the only real human charity." (6 June 1853)

"What seems to me to be the highest kind of Art (and the most difficult) is not to produce laughter or tears or sexual desire or anger, but to act as nature acts and make you dream (faire rever)" (26 August 1853)

197
Oh heart, do not grieve over this worn-out world,
You are not aimless, do not indulge in aimless sorrows;
Since it is not clear what has gone and what has not,
Be happy, don’t grieve over what was and what was not.

"It's a book about love and passion: but passion in the form in which it can exist nowadays, that is to say inactive." (October 1864)

"I want to depict a psychological state - one which really exists, in my view - which has not yet been described." (August 1866)

102
You have seen the world and all you saw was nothing,
All you have said and heard, that too is nothing:
Running from pole to pole, there was nothing,
And when you lurked at home, there was also nothing.

But, the pharmacist objected, since God knows all our needs, what's the use of prayer?
What do you mean? asked the priest. Prayer! Aren't you a Christian?
I beg your pardon, said Homais. I admire Christianity. In the first place, it freed the slaves, introduced into the world a morality-..
Never mind about that! All the texts-..
Texts, bah! Open up the history books. We know they were falsified by the Jesuits.

What time is it? she asked.
Madame Rollet walked outside, lifted the fingers of her right hand toward the brightest part of the sky, & walked back in slowly, saying: Almost three o'clock.
Oh, thank you! Thank you!

'But I love him!' she told herself. 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 & handsome being, a valiant nature imbued with both exaltation & refinement, the heart of a poet in the shape of an angel, a lyre with strings of bronze,...

What a scene there was the following Thursday in the hotel, in the room with Leon! She laughed, cried, sang, danced, ordered sherbets sent up, wanted to smoke cigarettes-she seemed wild to him, but adorable & superb.He did not know what there was within her that drove her recklessly toward the pleasures of life. She was becoming irritable, greedy & voluptuous...

16
Today is the time of my youth,
I drink wine because it is my solace;
Do not blame me, although bitter it is pleasant,
It is bitter because it is my life.

You're making a mistake. One should never neglect nature's gifts. Besides, think of it, my friend, by letting your wife study, you'll save later on when it comes to your daughter's musical education. I think that the mothers should teach their children themselves. Its one of Rousseau's theories, perhaps still a bit new, but it will win out in the end, I'm sure, like mothers' breast-feeding & vaccination.

Emma dreamed of her wedding day: why had she not resisted, implored? On the contrary, she had been happy, without perceiving the abyss into which she was rushing. Ah! If, in the freshness of her beauty, before the defilements of marriage & the disillusionments of adultery, she had been able to offer her life to some generous, solid heart. Then virtue, tenderness, sensual delights, & duty would have mingled...

Poor little woman,he thought,feeling tender.She's going to think me harder than a rock.It needs a few tears on it,but unfortunately I just cant cry.
He poured some water into a glass,dipped his finger into it,& let a big drop fall on the letter.It made a pale splotch on the ink.Then, looking for a seal for the letter, he came upon the one: Amor nel cor.
It hardly suits the occasion. Oh, well, what's the difference?

How could she-she who was so intelligent!-have fooled herself one more time? Moreover,what deplorable mania had made her ruin her life by these constant sacrifices?She recalled all her yearnings for luxury,all the privations to which she had subjected her soul,the sordidness of her marriage,of the household,her dreams falling into the mud like wounded swallows,everything she had wanted & denied herself,everything she

Well,he said,dont you know that there are certain souls in perpetual torment?They are constantly in need of either a dream or some occupation,the purest of passions,the most passionate of pleasures,& they throw themselves into all kinds of daydreams& madness.
At that she looked@ him as one stares at a traveler who has passed through exotic lands,& said:We poor women dont even have that distraction.
A sad distraction

You know what your wife needs? his mother asserted. To be forced to work. Manual labor. If she had to earn a living, like so many other women, she wouldn't have those spells that come from ideas she stuffs into her head because she doesn't have enough to do.
But she keeps busy, said Charles.
Keeps busy?Doing what?Reading novels, evil books, books against religion where they make fun of priests by quoting Voltaire...

Leon was tired of being in love without results. He began feeling the despondency brought on by the unvarying repetition of the same life, when there is no motivating interest & no sustaining hope. He was so bored with Yonville & the Yonvillities that the sight of certain people & certain houses irritated him beyond endurance, & the pharmacist, as friendly as he was, seemed to have become absolutely unbearable. YET..

How are you? he added.
Not well, Emma answered, I am suffering.
Ah, well, so am I, he answered. These first hot spells weaken one terribly,dont they?Well, what do you expect? We are born to suffer, as Saint Paul says.What does Monsieur Bovary say?
He? she said with a disdainful gesture.
But hasn't he prescribed anything for you?asked the priest genuinely surprised.
Ah, said Emma, it isnt an earthly remedy that I need

She wasnt in love with him.Love,she believed,should arrive all at once with thunder & lightning-a whirlwind from the skies that affects life,turns it every which way,wrests resolutions away like leaves,& plunges the entire heart into an abyss.She did not know that rain forms lakes on house terraces when the gutters are stopped up,& she remained secure in her ignorance until she suddenly discovered a crack in the wall

She hoped for a son; he would be strong & dark & she would call him Georges. The thought of having a male child was an anticipatory revenge for all her earlier helplessness. A man, at least, is free. He can explore passions & countries, surmount obstacles, taste the most exotic pleasures. But a woman is continually held back. Inert & flexible at the same time, she has both the susceptibilities of the flesh & legal...

What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening @ the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows & the lamp burning bright?
You're right, she said, fixing her large black eyes on him.
Nothing disturbs your thoughts, he continued, the hours pass. Without moving, you walk through the countries you see in your mind's eye; & your thoughts, caught up in the story, stop at the details or...

Emma was becoming difficult & capricious; she was no longer hiding her distaste for everything & everyone;& she began to express very odd opinions sometimes,condemning things that were generally approved & approving perverse & immoral things.This often cause her husband to stare @ her.
Would this misery last forever?Would she never be out of it?She certainly deserved as much as all those women who were living happily

That world was as prodigal as kings, full of ideals, ambitions, & fantastic dreams [the motley crowd of men of letters & actresses, laughing in the candlelight, in the restaurants, dining after midnight]. It was an existence above the others, between heaven & earth, in the midst of the elements, something sublime. As for the rest of the world, it was lost, shadowy, & ill-defined, as if it did not exist.

XII
Svetasvatara
MEDITATION can be learned, and it must be practiced according to accepted rules. By its means it is possible to realize the personal Brahman, who, in union with Maya, creates, preserves, and dissolves the universe, and like-wise the impersonal Brahman, who transcends all forms of being, who eternally is, without attribute and without action.

XI
Kaivalya
THE sage who by faith, devotion, and mediation has realized the Self, and become one with Brahman, is released from the wheel of change and escapes from rebirth, sorrow, and death.