Women Only Love Those That They Don’t

A Strange Thing, The Human Heart In General, And Woman's Heart In Particular.

Love, Like Fire, Goes Out Without Fuel.

I Was Lying, But I Wanted To Rouse Him. I Have An Inborn Urge To Contradict; My Whole Life Has Been A Mere Chain Of Sad And Futile Opposition To The Dictates Of Either Heart Or Reason. The Presence Of An Enthusiast Makes Me As Cold As A Midwinter's Day, And, I Believe, Frequent Association With A Listless Phlegmatic Would Make Me An Impassioned Dreamer.

The History Of A Man's Soul, Even The Pettiest Soul, Is Hardly Less Interesting And Useful Than The History Of A Whole People; Especially When The Former Is The Result Of The Observations Of A Mature Mind Upon Itself, And Has Been Written Without Any Egotistical Desire Of Arousing Sympathy Or Astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions Has Precisely This Defect – He Read It To His Friends.

My Love Had Grown One With My Soul; It Became Darker, But Did Not Go Out