It was as if his spirit were in prison. It would have been nice, indeed, to be that water, never staying, passing, passing; or wind, touching everything, never caught. To be able to do nothing without hurting someone - that was what was so ghastly.If only one were like a flower, that just sprang up and lived its life all to itself, and died. But whatever he did, or said now, would be like telling lies, or else being cruel. The only thing was to keep away from people.

Youth to youth, like the dragon-flies chasing each other, and love like the sun warming them through and through.

Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

That “small” emotion, love, grows amazingly when threatened with extinction.

Love is no hot-house flower,but a wild plant, born of a wet night,born of an hour of sunshine; sprungfrom wild seed, blown along the roadby awild wind.

Love could never come to full fruition till it was destroyed.