Our Memory Is A More

And Taking Her Friend’s Hand, She Put It On Her Breast, On That Firm Round Covering Of A Woman’s Heart Which The Male Often Finds So Satisfying That He Makes No Attempt To Find What Lies Beneath It.

There Are Some Delightful Places In This World Which Have A Sensual Charm For The Eyes. One Loves Them With A Physical Love. We People Who Are Attracted By The Countryside Cherish Fond Memories Of Certain Springs, Certain Woods, Certain Ponds, Certain Hills, Which Have Become Familiar Sights And Can Touch Our Hearts Like Happy Events. Sometimes Indeed The Memory Goes Back Towards A Forest Glade, Or A Spot On A River Bank Or An Orchard In Blossom, Glimpsed Only Once On A Happy Day, But Preserved In Our Heart.

Great Minds That Are Healthy Are Never Considered Geniuses, While This Sublime Qualification Is Lavished On Brains That Are Often Inferior But Are Slightly Touched By Madness.

To Love Very Much Is To Love Inadequately; We Love-that Is All. Love Cannot Be Modified Without Being Nullified. Love Is A Short Word But It Contains Everything. Love Means The Body, The Soul, The Life, The Entire Being. We Feel Love As We Feel The Warmth Of Our Blood, We Breathe Love As We Breathe The Air, We Hold It In Ourselves As We Hold Our Thoughts. Nothing More Exists For Us. Love Is Not A Word; It Is A Wordless State Indicated By Four Letters.

A Man Forced To Spend His Life Without Ever Having The Right, Without Ever Finding The Time, To Shut Himself Up All Alone, No Matter Where, To Think, To Reflect, To Work, To Dream? Ah! My Dear Boy, A Key, The Key Of A Door Which One Can Lock This Is Happiness, Mark You, The Only Happiness!