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Gian dei Brughi seized the book with both hands, rose to his knees, made as if to hug it to his chest, keeping it open at his place; then the desire to continue reading was too strong, and holding it tight, he raised it up so that he could stick his nose in it.
The abbé spent the rest of his days between prison and monastery in continual acts of abjuration, until he died, without having understood, after an entire life dedicated to faith, what he believed in, but trying to believe firmly to the end.
He understood this: that associations make man stronger and bring out the individual’s best talents, and offer the joy, rarely felt if we remain on our own, of seeing how many honest and good and capable people there are, for whom it’s worthwhile to wish for good things
For her, love was a heroic exercise: pleasure was mixed with proofs of daring, with generosity and dedication and tension of all the faculties of the mind. Their world was the most intricate and twisted and impassable trees.
“There can’t be love unless one is oneself with all one’s strength.”
