Every action today leads to murder, direct or indirect.
She was wearing a pair of my pajamas with the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her again. A minute later she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn't mean anything but that I didn't think so. She looked sad. But as we were fixing lunch, and for no apparent reason, she laughed in such a way that I kissed her.
I kept myself aloof from the world not because I had enemies, but because I had friends there. Not because they damaged me, as this happens usually, but because they thought I'm better than I really am. It was a lie that I could not stand.
No doubt, our love persisted, but in practice it served nothing; it was an inert mass within us, sterile as crime of a life sentence. It had declined on a patience that led nowhere, a dogged expectation.
The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly. He is solitary, languid, his condition exhausts him. If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action.
Beyond the curve of the days he glimpsed neither superhuman happiness nor eternity - happiness was human, eternity ordinary. What mattered was to humble himself, to organize his heart to match the rhythm of the days instead of submitting their rhythm to the curve of human hopes.