I tell you the more I think, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.
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I tell you the more I think, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.
I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
Thou hast evoked in me profounder spells than the evoking one, thou face! For me, thou hast uncovered one infinite, dumb, beseeching countenance of mystery, underlying all the surfaces of visible time and space.
In this love you are like a knife, with which I explore myself.
I saw love in a young girl's eyes, and that's a look you never forget.
I cannot come to be fully human unless I have received myself as a gift and accepted myself as a gift of somebody who has, as we say today, distorted me the way you distorted me by loving me.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Love is a scandal of the personal sort.
Love him. Unconditionally and with devotion. You chose him. He must be wonderful. If you chose him for any other reason, your problem, whatever it may be, lies in the realm of which I know nothing. If your brain, instead of your heart, pilots your emotions, there must be regrets. You cannot trust your brain. You can trust your heart.
You are like nobody since I love you.