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[The following is from one of Gustave Flaubert’s letters in which he describes his pleasure at writing Madame Bovary.]

Never mind whether they are good or bad, it is grand to write, to cease to be oneself, and to move among the creatures one is describing. Today, for instance, I have been man and woman at the same time, lover and mistress together, riding in the forest on an autumn afternoon under the yellowing leaves; and I have been the horses too, and the leaves, and the wind, and the words they spoke and the red sun that made them blink their eyes that swam with love. It may be out of pride or out of reverence, from a foolish gush of excessive self-conceit or a vague but lofty religious sense, but when I reflect after experiencing these joys, I feel tempted to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving to God if only I knew he could hear me.

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