Les Misérables

by Victor Hugo

Incidentally, let us say that on this earth where nothing is perfect, to be blind and to be loved is in fact one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness. To have continually at your side a wife, a daughter, a sister, a delightful human being who is there because you need her and because she cannot do without you, to know you are indispensable to a person who is necessary to you, to be able constantly to measure her affection by how much of her presence she grants you and to say to yourself, ‘Since she devotes all of her time to me, I must have all of her love’; to see the mind though you cannot see the face, to be able to count on the loyalty of one person when the world is eclipsed; to perceive in the rustle of a gown the fluttering of wings, to hear her to-ing and fro-ing, going out, coming home, talking, singing, and to think that you are at the centre of these footsteps, of this talking and singing; to demonstrate at every moment your own magnetic power, to feel all the more powerful the more infirm you are, to become in the darkness and by means of the darkness the star round which this angel gravitates – few joys equal this. The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that you are loved, loved for yourself, better still, loved despite yourself. This conviction the blind man has. In his plight, to be assisted is to be cherished. Does he lack anything? No. There is no loss of light in having love. And what love! A love that is all goodness. There is no b...

This cuts deep. It makes me feel like I must find a way to keep caring for my brother. Is there a way?