For real love one needs courage. But this means one must also have the courage to make the break and renounce one's love, in other words to endure a mortal wound. But I can only hope to be spared the worst. I don't know of course. Nor do I know how some part of it might be preserved, alive, not pressed between the leaves of a book as a memento.
Love is a joy.
Perhaps a joy mixed with pain, but a joy nevertheless. It is the mark of a true love that one thinks of what the other person suffers. Dear Nora Having left me five days without a word of news you scribble your signature with a number of others on a postcard. Since you left I have been in a state of dull anger. I consider the whole affair wrong and unjust.