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.
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.
I always quiver for the fear to touch your hand, and I don't know how, always happens that I touch it. As soon as it lies on mine I take a jump; the game rather gives me fever or better a delirium: I don't see, I don't feel nothing anymore; and, in this moment of alienation, what can I say, what can I do?
Where con I hide, how do I answer to myself?
All self-love in man and in any other loving being shall not be so if not to flatter other's self-love.
Nothing else counts if not the quality of the affection.
You can't teach love, but it's the most important thing to teach.
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.
I am an island and the stars have surrounded me and if I walk in silence I will find the path to get back to my road where I left you every decisive moment in a story.