Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.

Pain is no evil unless it conquers us.

We are all humiliated by the sudden discovery of a fact which has existed very comfortably and perhaps been staring at us in private while we have been making up our world entirely without it.

He was like a cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow.

No anguish I have had to bear on your account has been too heavy a price to pay for the new life into which I have entered in loving you.