She thought of the recurrent waves of pain that for some reason or other she and her husband had to endure...; of the incalculable amount of tenderness contained in the world; of the fate of this tenderness, which is either crushed or wasted, or transformed into madness; of neglected children humming to themselves in unswept corners; of beautiful weeds that cannot hide from the farmer.
Symbols and Signs, Nabokov
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2 comments:
To know about love is to know about crushed and wasted tenderness. You seem understand this.
you're a way diluted version of Daul :/
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