Book: Justine. Page 3

And morality is nothing, as long as it remains only the formula of good behavior.

Mediocrity was his salvation.

There is no pain comparable to the flour to make love to a woman whose body responds to your every move, but whose real self you are unavailable, she just doesn't know where to look.

A wrenching feeling of lying next to a beautiful marble statue, unable to respond to affection hugging her human flesh. There is something tedious and perverse love, capable of loving with such skill and at the same time so small.

Love - a terribly stable thing, and each of us gets a piece, no more and no less, a kind of diet. It can take infinitely varied forms and link you to the countless number of people. But the diet is diet as it will zatesalsya, demolished, will lose marketability, and not waiting for the true of its object. Because the destination is somewhere in the most remote depths of my soul, and there it must see itself as the love of oneself is the soil on which we build our so-called mental balance, health of the soul.

It's hard to resist the desires of the heart: if it is something you really want, then buy anyway and pay the soul.

Who the hell came up with the human heart? Tell me, and then you show the place where he was hanged.

We all are looking for reasonable arguments to believe in the absurd.

Like all immoral men, it is somewhere on the verge between a woman and a goddess.

They are all related to time, and time is not a reality, as if we wanted to, it exists as one of the conditions for work. For any drama creates a system of relations, and the actor is significant only to the extent to which it is linked.

Nothing interesting from a medical point of view - just a cold. Disease not interested in someone who wants to die.

Every man is part clay, part - demon, and no woman is able to endure both at once.

Pointless, "she writes," to imagine a state of love as the line of souls and thoughts; it is the simultaneous breakthrough of the spirit, a twofold in the Autonomous act of growing up. And feel - like a silent explosion inside each of the lovers. Around this event, stunned and detached from the world, sick of love, he, she, moving, tasting their experience; alone her gratitude towards him, an imaginary donor, donor, and creates the illusion of communication with him, but this is an illusion. The object of love is simply one who shared with you your experience and with the same narcissism; and a passionate desire to be near the beloved above all owes its existence not to a desire to possess it, but just try to compare the two amount of experience - like reflections in different mirrors. All this may precede the first look, kiss or touch; precede ambition, pride or envy; precede the first declarations which marked the turning point - since then the love slowly degenerates into habit, possession, and back to loneliness.

If she had ever really see my soul, she would have realized that for those of us who are able to feel deeply and who are aware of the inevitable limitations of human thought, there is only one answer - ironic tenderness and silence.