At last, one day, I took courage, and said, “Is it Joe?” And the dear old home-voice answered, “Which it air, old chap.” “Oh, Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell me of my ingratitude. Don’t be so good to me!” For Joe had actually laid his head down on the pillow at my side, and put his arm round my neck, in his joy that I knew him. “Which dear old Pip, old chap,” said Joe, “you and me was ever friends. And when you’re well enough to go out for a ride—what larks!” After which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back towards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me from getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering, “O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man!”

from Marina Tsvetaeva's "Poem of the End" A scar every servant and guest can see (and I think silently: love is a bow-string pulled back to the point of breaking). Love is a bond. That has snapped for us our mouths and lives part (I begged you not to put a spell on me that holy hour close on mountain heights of passion memory is mist). Yes, love is a matter of gifts thrown in the fire, for nothing

'Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life - if ever I thought a good thought - if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer - if ever I wished a righteous wish, - I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth.' 'Because you delight in sacrifice.' 'Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. To be privileged to put my arms around what I value - to press my lips to what I love - to repose on what I trust; is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.' 'And to bear with my infirmities, Jane; to overlook my deficiencies.' 'What are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of giver and protector.'

It was a "warm" Scottish day, meaning that the mist wasn't quite heavy enough to qualify as a drizzle, but not far off, either. Suddenly the inn door opened, and the sun came out, in the person of James. If I was a radiant bride, the groom was positively resplendent. My mouth fell open and stayed that way. A Highlander in full regalia is an impressive sight - any Highlander, no matter how old, ill-favored, or crabbed up in appearance. A tall, straight-bodied, and by no means ill-favored Highlander at close range is breath-taking. The thick red-gold hair had been brushed to a smooth gleam that swept the collar of a fine lawn shirt with tucked front, belled sleeves, and lace-trimmed wrist frills that matched the cascade of the strached jabot at the throat, decorated with a rudy stickpin. His tartan was a brilliant crimson and black that blazed among the more sedate MacKenzies in their green and white. The flaming wool, fastened by a circular silver broach, fell from his right shoulder in a graceful drape, caught be a silver-studded sword belt before continuing its sweep past neat calves clothed in wool hose and stopping just short of the silver-buckled black leather boots. Sword, dirk, and badger-skin sporran completled the ensemble. Well over six feet tall, broad in proportion, and striking of feature, he was a far cry from the grubby horse-handler I was accustomed to - and he knew it. Making a leg in courtly fashion, he swept me a bow of impeccable grace, murmuring "Your servant, ma'am," eyes glinting wit mischief. "Oh," I said faintly.

They, however, now had rather loftier ideas about the power of love, and of music, which is the sound of love. Love is the relationship between levels of reality. Love produces harmony and is the ruler of the arts. As artists we seek to achieve, in our art, a state of love. Love is the attempt to impose order on chaos, meaning on absurdity. It is inventive, double-natured, holding the keys to everything. There is love in the cosmos.

Volume 2, page 59: Like all men who had grown up in society, Prince Andrew liked meeting someone there not of the conventional society stamp. And such was Natasha, with her surprise, her delight, her shyness, and even her mistakes in speaking French. With her he behaved with special care and tenderness, sitting beside her and talking of the simplist and most unimportant matters; he admired the joyous brightness of her eyes and smile, which related not to what was said but to her own happiness. When she was chosen as a dancer, and rose with a smile and danced around the room, Prince Andrew particularly admired her shy grace. In the middle of the cotillion, having completed one of the figures, Natasha, still out of breath, was returning to her seat when another dancer chose her. She was tired and panting and evidently thought of declining, but immediately put her hand gaily on the man's shoulder, smiling at Prince Andrew. 'I'd be glad to sit beside you and rest: I'm tired; but you see how they keep asking me, and I'm glad of it, I'm happy and I love everybody, and you and I understand it all,' and much, much more was said in her smile. When her partner left her Natasha ran across the room to choose two ladies for the figure. 'If she goes to her cousin first and then to another lady, she will be my wife,' said Prince Andrew to himself, quite to his own surprise, as he watched her. She did go first to her cousin.

I've oft been told by learned friars, That wishing and the crime are one, And Heaven punishes desires As much as if the deed were done. If wishing damns us, you and I Are damned to all our heart's content; Come, then, at least we may enjoy Some pleasure for our punishment!

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That's all we know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh.

If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smile---her look---her way Of speaking gently,---for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'--- For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may Be changed, or change for thee,---and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--- A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of creation if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning; my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the Universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods. Time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees — my love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath — a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff — he's always, always in my mind — not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself — but as my own being — so, don't talk of our separation again — it is impracticable.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

The tram approaches a stopping place and a girl takes up her position near the step, ready to alight. She is as distinct to me as if I had run my hands over her. She is dressed in black, the pleats of her skirt hang almost still, her blouse is tight and has a collar of white fine-meshed lace, her left hand is braced against the side of the tram, the umbrella in her right hand rests on the second top step. Her face is brown, her nose, slightly pinched at the sides, has a broad round tip. She has a lot of brown hair and stray little tendrils on the right temple. Her small ear is close-set but since I am near her I can see the whole ridge of the whorl of her right ear and the shadow at the root of it. At that point I asked myself: How is it that she is not amazed at herself, that she keeps her lips closed and makes no such remark? <i>Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir</i>

They tell this tale of its foundation: men of various nations had an identical dream. They saw a woman running at night through an unknown city; she was seen from behind, with long hair, and she was naked. They dreamed of pursuing her. As they twisted and turned, each of them lost her. After the dream they set out in search of that city; they never found it,but they found one another; they decided to build a city like the one in the dream. In laying out the streets, each followed the course of his pursuit; at the spot where they had lost the fugitive's trail, they arranged spaces and walls differently from the dream, so she would be unable to escape again. This was the city of Zobeide, where they settled waiting for that scene to be repeated one night. None of them, asleep or awake, ever saw the woman again. The city's streets were streets where they went to work every day, with no link any more to the dreamed chase. Which, for that matter, had long been forgotten.

He kissed her palm again, and again the skin on the back of her neck crawled excitingly. 'But you do like me. Could you ever love me, Scarlett?' 'Ah!' she thought, triumphantly. 'Now I've got him!' and she answered with studied coolness: 'Indeed, no. That is not unless you mended your manners considerably.' 'And I have no intention of mending them. So you could not love me? That is as I hoped. For while I like you immensely, I do not love you and it would be tragic indeed for you to suffer twice for unrequited love, wouldn't it, dear? May I call you "dear", Mrs. Hamilton? I shall call you "dear" whether you like it or not, so no matter, but the proprieties must be observed.' 'You don't love me?' 'No, indeed. Did you hope that I did?' 'Don't be so presumptuous.' 'You hoped! Alas, to blight your hopes! I should love you, for you are charming and talented at many useless accomplishments. But many ladies have charm and accomplishments and are just as useless as you are. No, I don't love you. But I do like you tremendously - for the elasticity of your conscience, for the selfishness which you seldom trouble to hide, and for the shrewd practicality in you which, I fear, you get from some not too remote Irish-peasant ancestor.' Peasant! Why, he was insulting her! She began to splutter wordlessly. 'Don't interrupt,' he begged, squeezing her hand. 'I like you because I have those same qualities in me and like begets liking. I realise you still cherish the memory of the godlike and wooden-headed Mr. Wilkes, who's probably been in his grave these six months. but there must be room in your heart for me too. Scarlett, do stop wriggling! I am making you a declaration. I have wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you, in the hall at Twelve Oaks, when you were bewitching poor Charlie Hamilton. I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman - and I've waited longer for you than I've ever waited for any woman.'