fiefoe

In statistical terms, Mary McCarthy is a fan of outliers.

Where destiny is no more than average probability, it appears inescapable in a peculiarly depressing way.
Ideas and sentiments, like wallpaper, have become a kind of money too and they share with money the quality of abstractness, which allows them to be exchanged. It is is their use as coins that has made them trite.
A meeting between strangers in Madame Bovary inevitably produces a golden shower of platitudes.
These acquisitions, seen through Charles's vision, do just what an advertiser would promise they give Emma value.
Worship... is what beauty - a mystery - deserves.
All that can be said is that Charles Bovary (and his obstinate love of beauty) is a possibility that cannot be ruled out even from a pessimistic view of the march of events.

It was one of those hybrid hats, in which you could find elements of a busby, a lancer cap, a bowler, an otterskin cap, and a nightcap, one of those poor concoctions whose mute ugliness contains depths of expression like the face of an imbecile.
The sun came through the dove-colored silk parasol, its rays moving over the white skin of her face. She smiled beneath it at the mild warmth of the season, and you could hear drops of water, one by one, falling on the taut-stretched silk.
He felt an undefined hope, a vague happiness. As be brushed his sideburns in front of the mirror, he found his face more pleasing.
He considered (his mother)'s judgment infallible but found the other irreproachable.

"Madame Bovary"