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French travellers were prone to be very upset by the differences. In hotels, they kept away from sideboards with strange foods, requesting the normal dishes they knew from home. They tried not to talk to anyone who had made the error of not speaking their language, and picked gingerly at the fennel bread.
‘After his fortieth year,’ he consoles himself, ‘any man of merit… will hardly be free from a certain touch of misanthropy.’
Love could not induce us to take on the burden of propagating the species with out promising us the greatest happiness we could imagine. To be shocked at how deeply rejection hurts is to ignore what acceptance involves.
We should not feel embarrassed by our difficulties, only by our failure to grow anything beautiful from them.

