A mother who doesn't part with a daughter every season has no real affection.
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A mother who doesn't part with a daughter every season has no real affection.
Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.
Pleasures are like photographs: in the presence of the person we love, we take only negatives, which we develop later, at home, when we have at our disposal once more our inner dark room, the door of which it is strictly forbidden to open while others are present.
With love you can't go to market. It's its joy, like the joy of intellect, is feeling alive. The reason for love is loving: no more, no less.
All self-love in man and in any other loving being shall not be so if not to flatter other's self-love.
I think you are capable of great nobility and kindness towards a wife, I believe you capable of every sacrifice and of great tollerance in conjugal life, until, you have an end, I mean to say that the woman you love lives and lives for you. I only lay claim to one priviledge of my sex (and it is not an enviable priviledge, it is not the case for you to have it for yourselves) and it is that of longer than when life and hope have gone.
I loved your smile, but I preferred mine.
Because there was something, between those two, something that in reality had to be a secret, or something like that. So it was hard understanding what they told each other and how they lived, and how they were. You could've raked your brains trying to give a sense to some of their gestures. And you could've asked yourself why for years and years. The only thing that often appeared evident, actually almost always, and maybe forever, the only thing was that in what they did and in what they said there was something - so to speak - of beautiful.
No one is happy, like who knows to be loved.
After life has slapped you profusely you must get used again to a more delicate touch.