From the beginning of time, in childhood, I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved.

To raise the veil. To see what you're saying goodbye to.

He takes her in his arms He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you But he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end You're dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.

I think I can remember being dead. Many times, in winter, I approached Zeus. Tell me, I would ask him, how can I endure the earth?

The great thing is not having a mind. Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me.

From the beginning of time, in childhood, I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved.

Desire, loneliness, wind in the flowering almond— surely these are the great, the inexhaustible subjects to which my predecessors apprenticed themselves. I hear them echo in my own heart, disguised as convention.