The Wounds Of Self-love Turn Incurable When

Holding This Book In Your Hand, Sinking Back In Your Soft Armchair, You Will Say To Yourself: Perhaps It Will Amuse Me. And After You Have Read This Story Of Great Misfortunes, You Will No Doubt Dine Well, Blaming The Author For Your Own Insensitivity, Accusing Him Of Wild Exaggeration And Flights Of Fancy. But Rest Assured: This Tragedy Is Not A Fiction. All Is True.

There Are Moments In Life When All We Can Bear Is The Sense That Our Friend Is Near Us; Our Wounds Would Wince At The Touch Of Consoling Words, That Would Reveal The Depths Of Our Pain.

Whereas Scoundrels Become Reconciled After Knifing One Another, Lovers Break Up Irrevocably Over A Mere Glance Or Word.

One Of The Glories Of Society Is To Have Created Woman Where Nature Had Made Only A Female; To Have Created A Continuity Of Desire Where Nature Thought Only Of Perpetuating The Species; And, In Fine, To Have Invented Love.

Love, According To Our Contemporary Poets, Is A Privilege Which Two Beings Confer Upon One Another, Whereby They May Mutually Cause One Another Much Sorrow Over Absolutely Nothing.