Book: Morella

I loved her hot than you ever thought you could love an earthly being.

Watch your happiness gone; the joy is not repeated twice in your life, as roses of pest do not bloom twice a year. You will no longer enjoy life, and will carry his shroud on the ground like a Muslim in Mecca.

There were no such days when you could love me, but that which you rejected in life, you're going to adore after death.

I die but still I live.

This is the day of days. The day of days to life or death. A great day for sons of earth and life, but even more beautiful for the daughters of heaven and death!

And so, when I read the forbidden page when Morella put his cold hand on mine, and removed from the ashes of a dead philosophy some quiet, strange words, the meaning of which is extraordinary as if fire burned in my memory, I felt that I light up the forbidden spirit. So hour after hour I sat beside her, enjoying the music of her voice until finally, his tune never received a hint of horror, and my soul was wadala shadow. I paled and shuddered inwardly at these unearthly sounds. And thus the joy is gradually shifting to horror, the most beautiful thing turned into a disgusting, and Gannon became Hell.

Because to think is
happiness, because to dream is happiness.

And since by "identity" we mean rational being, endowed with reason, and since thinking is always accompanied by consciousness, and they make us by ourselves, unlike all other beings who think. Principium individuationis, the idea of personality, which disappears or does not disappear with the death...