“It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion; and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to sumbolise. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered vestment, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the panis caelestis, the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming censers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives.”

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

“Longe de se aborrecer nos seus primeiros tempos de convento, agradava-lhe o convívio das boas irmãs, que, para a distrair, a levavam à capela, de onde se penetrava no refeitório por um corredor comprido. Brincava muito pouco durante os recreios, compreendia bem o catecismo, e era ela quem respondia sempre ao sr. vigário, nas perguntas difíceis. Sem nunca sair da atmosfera morna das aulas e vivendo entre aquelas mulheres de rosto branco que traziam rosários com uma cruz de cobre, deixava-se entorpecer suavemente na languidez mística que se exala dos perfumes do altar, da frescura da água benta e da irradiação dos círios. Em vez de dar atenção à missa, olhava no seu livro as vinhetas piedosas ornadas de azul, e amava a ovelha doente, o sagrado coração trespassado de flechas agudas, ou o pobre Jesus que cai no caminho ao peso do madeiro. Experimentou, por mortificação, ficar um dia inteiro sem comer. Procurava na imaginação qualquer voto a cumprir. Quando ia à confissão, inventava pecadilhos, a fim de ficar ali mais tempo, de joelhos na sombra, as mãos postas, o rosto encostado à grade ante o murmúrio do confessor.”

Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert, trad. João Pedro de Andrade