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Numai moartea e o for?? la fel de absolut?, dar Ã®n lupta de veacuri dintre aceste dou? puteri, dragostea este cea care ia moartea de gÃ¢t, Ã®i pune genunchiul Ã®n piept, o bate ziua ?i noaptea, o Ã®nvinge Ã®n fiecare prim?var?, o urm?re?te pas cu pas ?i-n fiecare groap? pe care aceasta o sap?, dragostea arunc? s?mÃ¢n?a unei vie?i noi.
No puedo soportar mÃ¡s en silencio. Debo hablar con usted por cualquier medio a mi alcance. Me desgarra usted el alma. Estoy entre la agonÃa y la esperanza. No me diga que es demasiado tarde, que tan preciosos sentimientos han desaparecido para siempre. Me ofrezco a usted nuevamente con un corazÃ³n que es aÃºn mÃ¡s suyo que cuando casi lo destrozÃ³ hace ocho aÃ±os y medio. No se atreva a decir que el hombre olvida mÃ¡s prontamente que la mujer, que su amor muere antes. No he amado a nadie mÃ¡s que a usted. Puedo haber sido injusto, dÃ©bil y rencoroso, pero jamÃ¡s inconsciente. SÃ³lo por usted he venido a Bath; sÃ³lo por usted pienso y proyecto. Â¿No se ha dado cuenta? Â¿No ha interpretado mis deseos? No hubiera esperado estos diez dÃas de haber podido leer sus sentimientos como debe usted haber leÃdo los mÃos. Apenas puedo escribir. A cada instante escucho algo que me domina. Baja usted la voz, pero puedo percibir los tonos de esa voz cuando se pierde entre otras. Â¡BuenÃsima, excelente criatura! No nos hace usted en verdad justicia. Crea que tambiÃ©n hay verdadero afecto y constancia entre los hombres. Crea usted que estas dos cosas tienen todo el fervor de F. W.
The mind of man works with strangeness upon the body of time. An hour, once it lodges in the queer element of the human spirit, may be stretched to fifty or a hundred times its clock length; on the other hand, an hour may be accurately represented by the timepiece of the mind by one second. This extraordinary discrepancy between time on the clock and time in the mind is less known than it should be, and deserves fuller investigation.
I love working with male actors, and I think there's a tendency to write really interesting characters that would work solely alongside men where they would be in a man's world and have to deal with that, and it creates a lot of interesting storylines. For me, it's kind of circumstantial, but I definitely enjoy it.
I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.
I shall never forget how I was roused one night by the groans of a fellow prisoner, who threw himself about in his sleep, obviously having a horrible nightmare. Since I had always been especially sorry for people who suffered from fearful dreams or deliria, I wanted to wake the poor man. Suddenly I drew back the hand which was ready to shake him, frightened at the thing I was about to do. At that moment I became intensely conscious of the fact that no dream, no matter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality of the camp which surrounded us, and to which I was about to recall him.
I really like you better aimless and lost among people, a little crazy, oddball, not looking like yourself. So that I don't know you at all and the nearer I get to you the more you separate yourself from me-- I get dizzy trying to follow you and I have to work really hard-- and that's what I want!
While I slept you stood in thecolorful night marketwith pyramids of brightfruit piled highWhere those who loved you,rushing back to their intimate stalls,held out pears that had beendreamed for youAnd would the dream pear notcome gladlyonce it knew this was youwanting to take it in?The dream pear chose reality,wanting your mouth as I did -Honestly, it was happy to be bitten.
For the first time in his life, Mont Blanc for a moment looked to him what it was - a chaos of anarchic and purposeless forces - and he needed days of repose to see it clothe itself again with the illusions of his senses, the white purity of its snows, the splendor of its light, and the infinity of its heavenly peace. Nature was kind; Lake Geneva was beautiful beyond itself, and the Alps put on charms real as terrors.