She thought of the death of newborn things, lonely roads, and strangers who appear out of nowhere simply to hold one’s hand, woods in which the sun was always setting. She had only to lay her head on his chest and he would lead her away to the sea, to the city, to the woods forever.
Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye