The Immoralist

by André Gide

this was what I sought to discover: the authentic being, “the old Adam” whom the Gospels no longer accepted;

Our happiness, during this last part of the trip, was so untroubled, so calm, that I have nothing to tell about it. The loveliest creations of men are persistently painful. What would be the description of happiness? Nothing, except what prepares and then what destroys it, can be told.