And then the sly arch-lover that he was, he said the subtlest thing of all: that the lover was nearer the divine than the beloved; for the god was in the one but not in the other - perhaps the tenderest, most mocking thought that ever was thought, and source of all the guile and secret bliss the lover knows.

[...] Et ma fièvre ? D'où vient-elle ?- Allons donc, c'est un incident sans conséquence qui passera vite.- Non, Clawdia, tu sais bien que ce que tu dis là n'est pas vrai, et tu le dis sans conviction, j'en suis sûr. La fièvre de mon corps et le battement de mon cœur harassé et le frissonnement de mes membres, c'est le commencement d'un incident, car ce n'est rien d'autre [...], rien d'autre que mon amour pour toi [...].

Isn't it grand, isn't it good, that language has only one word for everything we associate with love - from utter sanctity to the most fleshly lust? The result is perfect clarity in ambiguity, for love cannot be disembodied even in its most sanctified forms, nor is it without sanctity even at its most fleshly. Love is always simply itself, both as a subtle affirmation of life and as the highest passion; love is our sympathy with organic life.

A man's dying is more his survivor's affair than his own.