Book: Our heart

It is impossible to love is infinite; you can only be true. Do you think that frenzied feeling should last for years? No! Well, those women that live among the passions, violent, long or short flashes of their whims, turn your life into a novel. The characters change, circumstances and events is full of surprises and variety, the outcome is always new. I admit that all this is for them a very fun and exciting, because the excitement of the ties, development and end of each time revived. But when it's over it's over forever... for him... you Know?

... may be no deep love without deep suffering.

Why we never find what we dream of and always meet just something approximate?

The woman always takes the position of the illusion that she is able to create.

They know, understand and love only what gives them a price, for example, outfits and jewelry, which go out of fashion every ten years; but they do not understand what is the fruit of constant, rigorous selection, which requires a deep and subtle artistic penetration and disinterested, purely aesthetic sophistication of the senses. And feelings-that they have terribly primitive; it is the feelings of the females, there is little measurable improvement, unavailable, anything that does not hurt their female ego, which absorbs strongly in them all.

What a lucky man this Predele! Loves only one thing - his art thinks only of him, lives only for him. And that fills, happy and makes his life happy and prosperous. It's really a great artist of the old wing. That's really who is indifferent to women, to our women, with their flourishes, lace and pretense! <...> No, he needs the genuine plastic, not fake.

And now the flirting was all; artificial contrivances have become the main means and at the same time goal: it sought not so much to conquer men, but in order to taunt rivals, and incite their jealousy.

So love is now only a legend, fit only for to be sung in verse or false described in the novels?

This woman thought, but not felt.

If she were more beautiful, but indifferent to her beauty, she would not have the seductiveness that she loved her nearly all who were not alien from the nature of the character her charm.

But in this love to itself was the secret of her charm and her power over men. She so admired the other petted the grace of her form and the beauty of all its individuals, looking for and finding everything that could further stress them, so picking up subtle hints that made her charms more neotrazimoi, and his eyes were still phenomenal, and so skilfully had recourse to all the above decorating her own that gradually found everything that could appeal to others.

... My coquetry quite dispassionately, and it gives me the ability to save... or to return to his friends, never losing them completely, and keep them all near each other.

The laughter died. And who can laugh? All by yourself funny.

If we women have something not know, it is almost always a guess.