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| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | Love, being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense of exorbitant profit, spiritually, by an exchange of hearts, being at the bottom of pure passions, as that of exorbitant profit, bodily or materially, is at the bottom of those of lower atmosphere), every morning Oak's feelings were as sensitive as the money-market in calculations upon his chances. Kissing her face, her shoulders, her hands wet with tears - oh, how unhappy we were! - I confessed my love for her, and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty, and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue in their accepted meaning, or you must not reason at all. In love there are no friends. The property of love is to err. I don't count life as life without love... To my mind, love...both the sorts of love, which you remember Plato defines in his Banquet, served as the test of men. Some men only understand one sort, and some only the other. And those who only know the non-platonic love have no need to talk of tragedy. In such love there can be no sort of tragedy. "I'm much obliged for the gratification, my humble respects" - that's all the tragedy. And in platonic love there can be no tragedy, because in that love all is clear and pure... The supreme happiness of life consists in the conviction that one is loved; loved for one's own sake - let us say rather, loved in spite of one's self; this conviction the blind man possesses. To be served in distress is to be caressed. Does he lack anything? No. One does not lose the sight when one has love. And what love! A love wholly constituted of virtue! There is no blindness where there is certainty. Soul seeks soul, gropingly, and finds it. | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | |
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