Here's an example from two 19th-century authors
" The room where my mother gave birth overlooks a deserted part of the city walls, and through the windows of that room, one can see an endless sea crashing against reefs. I was nearly dead when I was born. The roar of waves, lifted by a storm heralding the autumn equinox, drowned out my cries: I’ve often been told these details; their sadness has never left my memory. There isn't a day when, dreaming of what I have been, I don’t see in my mind the rock on which I was born, the room where my mother inflicted life upon me, the storm whose sound lulled me to my first sleep, and the unfortunate brother who gave me a name I have almost always borne in misfortune. It seems as if heaven gathered these different circumstances to place an image of my fate in my cradle. "
And another 19th-century author
"He had heard these things so many times that they had nothing original for him. Emma was like all his mistresses; and the charm of novelty, gradually falling away like a garment, revealed the naked, eternal monotony of passion, which always has the same forms and the same language. This man, so full of practical sense, did not distinguish the dissimilarity of feelings under the similarity of expressions. Because libertine or venal lips had murmured similar phrases to him, he scarcely believed in the candor of these; one had to discount, he thought, exaggerated speeches hiding mediocre affections: as if the fullness of the soul did not sometimes overflow through the emptiest metaphors, since no one can ever give the exact measure of their needs, or their conceptions, or their pains, and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, when we would like to move the stars to pity."