The heart may think it knows better: the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends. The friend becomes a traitor by breaking, however unwillingly or sadly, out of our own zone: a hard judgment is passed on him, for all the pleas of the heart.
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- Absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.
- Some people are molded by their admirations, others by their hostilities.
- Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.
- The charm, one might say the genius of memory, is that it is choosy, chancy, and temperamental: it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.
- Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.
- Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. One’s relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain.