My flesh is sad, alas! . . .
His youth is roaring inside him, he does not hear.
–Madame de Sévigné
We heal as we console ourselves; the heart cannot always weep or always love.
–La Bruyér, Characters, Chapter IV, The Heart
The poets say that Apollo tended the flocks of Admetus; so too each man is a God in disguise who plays the fool.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson
And so, beginning with the rising sun, he was consumed, on the seaweed of the shore, keeping at the bottom of his heart, like an arrow in the liver, the burning wound of the great Kypris.
–Theocrites: The Cyclops
Amid the oblivion we seek in false
The sweet and melancholy scent of lilac
Wafts back more virginal through our
–Henri de Régnier: Sites, Poem 8 (1887)
No other place is more deeply imbued with my mother, so thoroughly has it been permeated with her presence, and even more so her absence. To a person who loves, is not absence the most certain, the most effective the most durable, the most indestructible, the most faithful of presences?
–Marcel Proust, Pleasures and Days
And the furious wind of concupiscence
Makes your flesh flap like an old flag.