If the air narrated me about you I would want to lose myself in the wind, there I would listen to your words and sighs, there I would be close to your soul and to the warmth of your heart.
I know only one duty: to love.
When love has melted together and mixed to beings in a sole angelic unit they have found out the secret of life.
I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe.
Who more love himself, less can love.
It is a misfortune to not be loved but an insult to not be loved anymore.
If I should like someone a lot, I never say their name to others: it would be like giving part of them away.
Love doesn't want to have, wants to only love.
It's incredible how the pain of the soul is misunderstood. If you're hit by a bullet or a splinter they start immediately screaming quick-nurse-help-him, if you break a leg they'll, should you have a sore throat they'll give you medicine. If your heart is in pieces and you're so desperate that you can't speak, instead, they don't even realize. Yet pain in the soul is a worse illness than a broken leg and a sore throat, it's wounds are deeper and more dangerous than those inflicted by a bullet or a splinter. They're wounds that don't heal, those, wounds that start bleeding again at every pretext.
I know. I know that I shall never again meet anything or anybody who will inspire me with passion. You know, it's quite a job starting to love somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment, in the very beginning, when you have to jump across a precipice: if you think about it you don't do it. I know I'll never jump again.