... But One Loves, And When One

Look At The Sun! It’s Dry, It’s Dead, It Needs A Drink, It Wants Blood! And I’ll Give It Blood!

Perfection Does Not Exist; To Understand It Is The Triumph Of Human Intelligence; To Expect To Possess It Is The Most Dangerous Kind Of Madness.

I See That You Believe In Love Such As The Poets And Romancers Have Represented... The Poets Represent Love As The Sculptors Design Beauty, As The Musicians Create Melody; That Is To Say, Endowed With An Exquisite Nervous Organization, They Gather Up With Discerning Ardor The Purest Elements Of Life, The Most Beautiful Lines Of Matter, And The Most Harmonious Voices Of Nature.... To Try To Find In Real Life Such Love As This, Eternal And Absolute, Is The Same Thing As To Seek On The Public Squares Such A Woman As Venus Or To Expect Nightingales To Sing The Symphonies Of Beethoven.

[i]f You Are Truly A Man, Sure Of Yourself And Confident Of Your Strength, You May Taste Of Life Without Fear And Without Reserve; You May Be Sad Or Joyous, Deceived Or Respected; But Be Sure You Are Loved, For What Matters The Rest?

Alas, Everything That Men Say To One Another Is Alike; The Ideas They Exchange Are Almost Always The Same, In Their Conversation. But Inside All Those Isolated Machines, What Hidden Recesses, What Secret Compartments! It Is An Entire World That Each One Carries Within Him, An Unknown World That Is Born And Dies In Silence! What Solitudes All These Human Bodies Are!