Giraud, Gustave Flaubert, 1856
What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening at the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows, and the lamp burning bright. Haven't you ever happened to come across in a book, some vague notion that you've had, some obscure idea that returns from afar and that seems to express completely your most subtle feelings? You forget everything. The hours slip by. You travel in your chair through centuries you seem to see before you, your thoughts are caught up in the story, dallying with the details or following the course of the plot, you enter into characters, so that it seems as if it were your own heart beating beneath their costumes. I'm absolutely removed from the world at such times. The hours go by without me knowing it. Sitting there I'm wandering in countries I can see every detail of - I'm playing a role in the story I'm reading. I actually feel I'm the characters - I live and breathe with them.
Gustave Flaubert, born on this day in 1821
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