The husband held her in his arms, and she pressed her head against his chest, trying to nest inside him, finding a land where she still felt loved and desired.
I imagine life to be like that. A long chain of moments. And I imagine that all that one can do is to try and live them one by one, without staying to think too much about those moments which have just passed or that are about to arrive.
My great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the
universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not
seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in
the woods: time will change it, (...)a source of little visible delight, but necessary. (...) He's always, always in
my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a
pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of
our separation again: it is impracticable...
Few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later, no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget, we will return.
Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
It is very rare for Elves to express their opinion, for advice are dangerous gifts, even when expressed between wise people. And all roads may end in a ravine.
Words betray us, they never can transmit us what we want to say. But also we betray them, we should say what we have to say.
Some books represent a treasure, a basis; once read you will need them for the rest of your life.
Sin wasn't born the day Eve picked the apple. That day a splendid virtue was born called disobendience.
The young girl totally absorbed me, without me joining the general conversation. I felt her living and moving like surrounded by a gentle music, and the delicate, deep fascination of her being encircled me dense, sweet and strong like the scent of a flower. As much as good this was for me, I could feel without a doubt that seeing her could not calm me and satisfy me and that the pain, if I would be again separated from her, would have become much more excruciating. In the delicate person of her, my fate and the flourishing spring of my life seemed to look at me, that I had to grab and to hold, because they would nevercome back. It was not a physical desire of kisses and of a night of love...It was more a pleased confidence that in that dear figure my destiny wanted to meet me, and that the spirit of her was friend to me, and that my happiness had also to be hers.