“If I told you that I have loved other women I would be a despicable liar. I thought I did, however; I forced myself to bind my heart to other passions, but it slid over them as if over ice. When you are a child, you have read so many books about love, you find the very word so melodious, you dream of it so much, you have such strong yearning to experience that feeling which makes you quiver when you read novels and dramas, that at every woman you see you say to yourself: isn’t this love? You endeavour to love so as to make a man of yourself. I have been no more immune than any other man from that childish weakness; I have sighed like an elegiac poet, and after many efforts I was quite astonished to find myself sometimes managing for a fortnight without having gone over to the woman I had chosen as the object of my dreams.”
– Memoirs of a Madman by Gustave Flaubert.