Many years have passed since that night. The wall of the staircase up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which I imagined would last for ever, and new ones have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are hard to understand.
Love? I make it often, but I never talk about it.
Love is an incurable disease. In love, there is permanent suffering. Those who love and those who are happy are not the same
