Book: Town

Most are always other things to do besides read in other people's hearts and discover the omissions. If you want the secret to store easily.

Free the woman just had to go back to my place and take home your freedom and start thinking about how this freedom to dispose of it.

Love is born only beauty, - not on my part; I don't get it; this just isn't for me, but other love, timidly awakened to life after a long friendship, tempered by pain, fused with a clean and durable affection, minted regularity, to obey the mind and its laws, and under the flawless fullness, Love, naslavcha on a quick and changeable Passion, such love is dear to me...

When I read the prayer, undressed and went to bed, I was overcome by a feeling that I still have friends. Friends, not pretending to be madly in love, promising forever to keep the delicate devotion of friends, which can therefore be expected only modest displays of affection, but to which they instinctively rushed my soul, so full of infinite gratitude, I begged his own Mind to help me to overcome this state of mind.

No one embarks on a voyage on the sea of Love, if only not discern or imagine the star of Hope over its turbulent waves.

To cultivate happiness? I never heard a more absurd mockery. And that means such a Council? After all, happiness is not a potato that is planted and fertilize with manure. It shines to us from heaven. It is like the dew of God that our soul is some fine morning suddenly drink from the wonderful Paradise herbs.

A chill that holds the flame in the depth, is a priceless gift of nature.

Work in the name of their independence, achieve it, and there will have to strive for more.

Easier to reflect the explosion of rage at close range than be threatened from afar.

Neither of outstanding beauty nor the perfect charm or true refinement is not without force, equally outstanding, equally perfect and reliable.

The past was dear to her, but she didn't say a word, she was able to feel, not pouring out his feelings the streams of speeches.

Life remains life, as if she us no hurt, ears and our eyes continue to serve, as if a little joy and consolation promise that you will have to see and hear.

There are words and hurtful, sharp like a knife, and the wounds from them, torn and poisoned, never heal. But there are the consolation of so delicate that the echo of them remains forever in the ears and to the grave does not stop, do not stop the warmth of their not getting cold and warms tokuyou soul until death.

Only death is able to deliver on time complete oblivion of all but the present, experiencing the present is fleeting, but irresistible passion.