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Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

(To His Coy Mistress, Andrew Marvell)

I am in your clay.
You are in my clay.
In life we share a single quilt.
In death we will share a single coffin.

(Married Love, Tao-Sheng)

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead.
...
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
...
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

(Love Letter, Sylvia Plath)

It’s a gift.

The world exists as a sheen of dew on flowers

My passion shall kill my before I will show it

Surprised by all that love is
I remain alert in stillness
Hurt by all that love is
I yearn for tenderness

Defeated by all that love is
At the truthful mouth of the night
Forsaken by all that love is
I will grow toward you.

And there are moments when it seems
I’ve married one of Shakespeare’s dreams.

Perhaps everything about love and lovers has already been said, but every time two people fall in lone, the familiar phrases all gain renewed meaning.

Juliet

Because tonight you are in my hair and eyes, And every street light that our taxi passes shows me you again, still you,
And because tonight all other nights are black, all other hours are cold and far away, and now,
this minute, the stars are very near and bright.

(Love 20 Cents the First Quarter Mile)

True Lovs

You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything.

He had never been able to engage himself completely in any love-affair, or any pleasure, he had never been really unhappy; he always felt as though he were somewhere else, that he was not yet wholly born. He waited. And during all that time, gently, stealthily, the years had come, they had grasped him from behind;

in vain he repeated the once inspiring phrases: "I must be free. I must be self-impelled, and able to say: I am because I will; I am my own begin-ning?" Empty, pompous words, the commonplaces of the intellectual.

he had said to himself: "I will be free," or rather he hadn't said anything at all, but that was what he wanted to say and it was in the nature of a bet; he had made a bet with himself that his whole life should be cast in the semblance of that unique moment.

I'm getting old. Here I am, lounging in a chair, committed to my present life right up to the ears and believing in nothing. And yet I also wanted to set out for a Spain of mine. But it couldn't be fixed. Are there many Spains?
I am there, absorbing the ancient taste of blood and iron-tainted water; I am my own taste, I exist. That's what existence means: draining one's own self dry without the sense of thirst.

"Friendship doesn't exist to criticize," Brunet used to say then. "Its function is to inspire confidence."

Besides, she took heroin. That wasn't a bad thing, in one sense; indeed, it was quite a good thing, in principle; Boris had talked to Ivich about it, and they had both agreed that it was a good thing. But there were ways of doing it: if one took it to destroy oneself, either in despair or by way of emphasizing one's freedom, that was entirely commendable. But Lola took it with greedy abandonment,

Since then Boris had regarded grown-ups as bulky and impotent divinities. If they bent down, they looked as though they were going to break; if they slipped and fell, the effect they produced in the onlooker was a desire to laugh and a sense of awe-stricken abhorrence. …... Grown-up people's tears were a mystical catastrophe, the sort of tears God sheds over the wickedness of mankind.

he looks like a man who means to enjoy life, and I don't think the worse of him for that; …...
I can't explain it, I get the feeling he's austere, and then if you look at his eyes, you can see he knows too much, he's the sort of fellow who can't enjoy anything in a simple way, either eating, or drinking, or sleeping with women; he has to think about everything,

"I'm not so much interested in myself as all that," he said simply.
"I know," said Marcelle. "It isn't an aim, it's a means. It helps you to get rid of yourself; to contemplate and criticize yourself: that's the attitude you prefer. When you look at yourself, you imagine you aren't what you see, you imagine you are nothing. That is your ideal: you want to be nothing."

oh. my god.

These are just massive HR violations

The food was self-explanatory, wasn't it? It was its own philosophy, it asked and answered its own questions. Wasn't it enough that your blood and your body asked no more than this moment of ritual and rare incense?

"Some people turn sad awfully young," he said. "No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I'm one of them."