Death be not proud, though some have called thee - John Donne

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

In the artist's studio - Christina Rossetti

One face looks out from all his canvases,

One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:

We found her hidden just behind those screens,

That mirror gave back all her loveliness.

A queen in opal or in ruby dress,

A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,

A saint, an angel — every canvas means

The same one meaning, neither more or less.

He feeds upon her face by day and night,

And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,

Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:

Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;

Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;

Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

She paced back and forth in the little room like a caged animal, looking at her face and her slender body in the mirror, imagining herself disfigured, diseased, distressed, stripped forever of her brash young healthiness, which in large part lay at the root of her joy in being alive-- and she started growing furious. At four o'clock she gave Antoine a call, but he sounded weary and troubled, and she just couldn't muster the courage to tell him of her fear. The truth was that at that moment, had he simply asked her to, she could easily have decided to keep the baby after all. But he seemed alien to her, unable to help her in any way, and all at once she felt a terrible yearning for someone, anyone who could protect her. She felt sad at having no female friend to whom she could turn for advice on these strictly female matters, to whom she could at least address her burning questions on crucial details that were terrifying to her. But she didn't know any women-- indeed, her sole female friend had been Pauline. And as she softly spoke that name, she reflexively thought of Charles-- Charles, the memory of whom she had squelched, since it gave rise to a lingering sense of remorse, since his was a name that could still make Antoine suffer. And in a flash, she knew for certain she was going to ask for his help, that no one could keep her from doing so, that he was the sole human being on earth capable of doing something to make this nightmare go away.

She went to the phone and dialed the old number of his office saying a friendly hello to the switchboard operator. Charles was there. She had a strange emotional reaction to the sound of his voice and it took her a moment to regain her breath. 

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

"Are you positive that you don't want to keep it?"

"All I want is you," she replied. She didn't even broach the topic of money, fearing she could easily humiliate him. But he, on the other hand, while tenderly stroking her hair, was thinking that, were she so inclined, he could easily and passionately love having a child with her. But her nature was always to retreat-- in fact, that was why he loved her-- so he could hardly resent her for this central aspect of her nature. Still, he made one last attempt. "You know, we could try the marriage thing... We could move into a new place."

"But where would we go?" she asked. "You know I think having a kid is incredibly demanding. You'd come happily home from work only to find me totally frazzled and in a lousy mood, and it would be..."

"So how to other people manage, then, in your opinion"

"They aren't like us," she replied, and pulled away from him. What this meant was: "They're not fiercely commited to being happy." He had nothing to say in reply. That evening, they went our and drank themselves silly. The next day, he planned to ask a friend of his for an address.

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

One morning in January she woke up with a violent bout of nausea. Antoine had already left without waking her, as he often did these days, as if she were recovering from some illness. She went into the bathroom and, not to her great surprise, threw up. The stockings that she had had to wash the night before were drying on the radiator, and it was while she was idly gazing at the, and thinking to herself that there wasn't a single other pair in her chest of drawers and that their bedroom was just as cramped as this tiny bathroom was-- in short, that she simply couldn't afford it-- that she decided not to keep Antoine's baby. 

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

All these memories, rather than pulling together coherently into a pleasantly vague unity that she had once so gaily called "my life", now remained just a scattered and troubling jumble of images, in her new and less happy state. Antoine was quite right, after all, to ask: What was going to become of them? Where were they headed, what was their destination? And this small bed, which once had been the most magical boat in all of Paris, was now turning into an endlessly drifting raft, and this small room, once so familiar to her, was turning into a remote and abstract background. By forcing her attention onto the specter of the future, he had, it seemed to her, closed the door to any future between them. 

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

 The Pierces, You'll be mine

You'll be mine - The Pierces

We could bring a blanket for the grass

Cover up your eyes so you don't see

If you let me go I'm running fast

One two three count one two three

We could watch the black birds cross the skies

We could count the leaves left on the trees

We could count the teardrops in our eyes

One two three yeah one two three

One two three yeah one two three

Now you know now you know

How I feel and I won't back down

Prick your finger on a spinning wheel

But dont make a sound

Drop of blood and now you're taken

For all time

With a kiss you will awaken

And you'll be mine you'll be mine you'll be mine

I could always stay and work it out

Wondering if you still wanted me

But there are so many things to doubt

One two three count one two three

Think that for a moment you were mine

I know that you saw what we could be

But then you went and changed your mind

One two three yeah one two three

One two three yeah one two three

Now you know now you know

How I feel and I won't back down

Prick your finger on a spinning wheel

But don't make a sound

Drop of blood and now you're taken

For all time

With a kiss you will awaken

And you'll be mine

One month went by. With Antoine's blessing, Lucile had returned to her old ways, but even so she felt uneasy replying 'Nothing'-- always just 'Nothing'-- when Antoine got home from work and asked her what she'd done. The truth was, he asked the question reflexively, without any resentment, but he did ask it every single evening. And every so often, she could make out in his eyes a sense of confused sadness, and a certain distrust of her. He made love to her in an intensely focused frenzy and wildness, but afterwards, when he was lying on his back and she was hunched over him, she had the distinct feeling that he was looking at her without seeing her, that he even saw, instead of her, a boat bobbing on the ocean, or a cloud at the mercy of the wind-- something moving, in any case, something that was slowly drifting towards oblivion. And yet he had never loved her so strongly, and he told her so. At such moments she would lie down tightly against him, close her eyes, and fall silent.

It's often said that people forget the power of language, but people also forget how powerfully silence can convey craziness, courageousness, and absurdity.

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

Bach's Flower Remedies

Personal formula to aid in depression

Elm
Gentian
Gorse
Mustard
Sweet Chestnut
White Chestnut
Wild Rose

Also helpful:

Cherry Plum

Larch

Oak

Olive

Rock Water

Bare minimum:

Genetian

Mustard

White Chestnut

Wild Rose

"It's got nothing to do with Charles," she blurted out. "It's Faulkner. No, listen-- I'll explain it all to you. The money came from the pearls-- I sold them."

"But you had them on just yesterday..."

"They're fake-- take a closer look. All you need to do is bite them, and..." This just wasn't the moment, though, to suggest to Antoine that he should sample her pearls with his teeth, and she felt it clearly-- nor was it the time to bring up Faulkner. She was turning out to be far more skilled at lying than telling the truth. Her cheek felt like it was burning now.

"I just couldn't take that job anymore..."

"After all of two weeks..."

"Yes, after all of two weeks. So I went to this jeweler's named Doris in Place Vendome, and I sold them my pearls and I got a cheap copy of the necklace made for me-- that's all"

"And so what did you do all day long all this time?"

"I went for walks, I stayed at home-- it was just like in the old days."

He was staring intently at her and it made her want to look away, but everybody knows that looking away in this kind of situation is a surefire sign of prevarication  and so she forced herself to stare back at Antoine. His yellow-eyed gaze had turned somehow darker, and in the midst of all her turmoil it occurred to her that anger made him more handsome, which was a very unusual quality.

"Why should I believe you? You've been telling me nothing but a pack of lies for three weeks straight."

"Because I have nothing more to confess," she said wearily, at last daring to look away. She leaned her forehead against he windowpane  absentmindedly following a cat as it sauntered down the sidewalk in a nonchalant fashion that belied the biting cold outside. She went on, in a calm voice: "I had warned you that I wasn't cut out for it...for anything of that sort. Either I'd have died of boredom or I'd have gone out of my mind. I was really unhappy, Antoine. That's the only possible thing to hold against me."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Oh, you were just so pleased to see me working, to see me caught up in 'real life'. And also, I was a pretty good actress!"

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

Because you're my existential crisis - Damon

"Sir, you okay? - What happened?" 

"I'm lost."

"And you're laying in the middle of the road?"

"Not that kinda lost. Metaphorically. Existentially."

"You need help?"

"Well, yes I do. Can you help me?"

"You're drunk."

"No. Well, yes. A little maybe. No, please don't leave. I really do need help."

"Don't move."

"I don't want any trouble."

"Neither do I. But it's all I got, is trouble."

"Why can't I move?"

"What's your name?"

"Jessica."

"Jessica, I have a secret. I have a big one, but I've never said it out loud. I mean, what's the point?! It's not gonna change anything... It's not gonna make me good, make me adopt a puppy! I can't be what other people want me to be. What she wants me to be. This is who I am, Jessica."

"Are you gonna hurt me?"

"I'm not sure. Because you're my existential crisis. Do I kill you? Do I not kill you?"

"Please don't-"

"But I have to, Jessica. Because I'm not human... And I miss it. I miss it more than anything in the world! That is my secret. But there's only so, so much hurt a man can take."

Ode on Melancholy - John Keats

NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

The Complete Inventory of Dark Secrets and Mysterious Motivations for Gothic Heroes

• He killed a man in his past 
•  His first wife died mysteriously. He knows why, but also knows no one will believe him.
• Or he doesn't know why and believes it might have something to do with him.
• He sired a child who he believes is lost to him forever, either dead, missing, abducted or ill for some arcane reason no doc can diagnose.
• Accidents befall anyone who gets close to him--he doesn't know why, but this has made him a loner.
• Everyone he has ever loved is dead for different reasons, making him feel he is somehow responsible.
• He has a step-relative of some kind who is psychotic (Make it "step" so it's not in his line). 
• He sees ghosts.
• He believes he is responsible for some devlish act because whoever actually did it made it seem the hero was responsible.
• Mysterous incidents, seemingly or actually weird, surround him and those close to him.
• There's a family curse that no one has ever broken.
• There's a history of shapeshifting in his family.
• A ghost haunts him, making him afraid he's going crazy because he doesn't believe in ghosts.
• He is hiding somone for what he feels is a good reason, but it isn't.
• He has a malevolent enemy who is either a person he knows or one he doesn't know. Or else this enemy is a supernatural being of some kind.
• He was raised by a monster of a parent, who blamed him for everything going wrong in the father's life and abused him as a result.
• He's scarred physically or emtionally by an accident he thought he was responsible for causing another's death.
• He's involved in work which he can't talk about which makes him seem more mysterious or sinister than he really is.

Compiled by the Gothic Writers Chapter

Recipe for a gothic romance

• First person perspective
• A heroine whom someone tries to kill at least once before the credits roll
• Last minute rescue by hero
• Book opens with heroine on train, carriage or car, en route to story setting
• She has a "rug" over her knees to keep warm, but it doesn't help much
• Long narrative of heroine's childhood
• An old dark house.
• Household staff/servants are usually suspicious, taciturn and territorial
• Hero is also a suspect
• Mysterious doings by either a ghost or a malevolent human. A truly great example might even have both (e.g. The Uninvited).
• A serious tale, no wisecracking
• At least one storm during the course of the narrative. There must be howling wind, sheets of rain or snow and either the power must go out or the gaslight or candles must flicker like crazy. (The Spiral Staircase is perfect in this regard.)
• Any unexplained noises during the night come from above heroine's room
• Heroine is fond of taking long walks
• Gothic heroines have a penchant for wandering out into thick fog
• Heroine is invariably attacked in the fog; she can't see but attacker apparently can
• The heroine goes out horseback riding with the hero (with a borrowed horse from his stable) and sometimes suffers a riding "accident"?
• Lots of overhearing/eavesdropping
• Finding a diary of the mysteriously deceased
• A minstrels' gallery
• No hot explicit sex scenes

Gothic Romance Forum, Common elements in gothic/suspense novels

"There ensued a string of indistinguishable unfocused days, full because they were so totally empty, tumultuous because they were so serene, with her spirit essentially drifting in an interval of time without start or finish, without landmarks, without purpose. She found herself reliving her old student days, when she had regularly cut classes at the Sorbonne, tasting once again the flavor of flaunting the law that for so long had been forgotten. There was simply no way to compare the free time that Charles had given her and the free time that she was stealing from Antoine. And what better souvenir could one hope to retain from one's adolescence than that of an endless little white lie foisted on others, on the future, and often on oneself?

To what extent was Lucile fooling herself in courting disaster so blatantly, in flirting so dangerously with the chances of infuriating Antoine, of jeopardizing his trust in her, of sparking a showdown in which they would both be forced to face the truth: that she would never, in fact, be able to live that normal, balanced, and comfortable life that he was offering her? She knew very well that in sweeping this whole mess under the rug right now, she was not committing herself to dealing with it seriously in the long term. Something inside her was terribly determined, but she couldn't figure out what it was all about. The truth was, she was determined to do precisely what she enjoyed, and nothing else, but this is a difficult thing to admit to oneself when one supposedly loves someone else. Night after night she came back to Antoine's warmth, his laughter, and his body.. and there was not one moment when she had the feeling that she was deceiving him. Life without Antoine was more imaginable for her than life in an office. And the latter was seeming, with each passing day, less and less plausible."

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

"When she got home, she told Antoine a thousand anecdotes about all the little goings-on at Le Reveil, and he was clearly amused. She took particular pleasure in lying to him because she loved him so much, and because she was so happy, and because she so truly wanted him to share in her happiness. One day, of course, he would find out; some day, even though she'd told Marianne not to do so, the office phone would ring and Marianne would answer it and blurt out that Lucile had been 'away' for a month.. but rather perversely, this sword of Damocles hanging over Lucile's head simply added an unexpected little twinge of excitement to each day went by."

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

"I was looking for someone that I was attracted to, and I… don’t really have to consider you know, does he want to have kids or not, is he going to want to, you know, do something else down the road. I’m not structuring my whole long term life around this person, so I can stop and be willing to go ‘how do I feel when I’m with this person?’. Do I feel good, are our interactions making me happy? And kinda just really give in to what I think of as the real parts of love, rather than like, the logistics, and kind of figure the odds of whether this person is going to be a good partner for you in 10 years"

Mistress Matisse, Poly Weekly #105: Mistress Matisse Talks Poly

"It was The Wild Palms by Faulkner, and fate was such that she quickly hit upon this monologue by Harry: 

'...Respectability. That was what did it. I found out some time back that it's idleness breeds all our virtues, our most bearable qualities-- contemplation, equableness, laziness, letting other people alone; good digestion mental and physical: the wisdom to concentrate on fleshy pleasures-- eating and evacuating and fornication and sitting in the sun-- than which there is nothing better, nothing to match, nothing else in this world but to live for the short time you are loaned breath, to be alive and to now it...'

Lucile stopped right there, shut her book, paid the waiter and walked out. She headed straight back to the newspaper, told Sirer that she was quitting, and asked him not to say anything to Antoine about it, all without offering a word of explanation. She stood there before him, straight and stubborn and smiling, and he simply looked at her with bewilderment. She took off immediately  hailed a taxi, told the driver to take her to the Place de Vendome, and got out at a jeweler's where she promptly sold, at half-price, the pearl necklace that Charles had bought her that year for Christmas. She ordered a replica made of it in fake pearls, snubbed the knowing smile that the saleslady flashed at her, and walked out feeling as a free woman. She spent a half hour looking at impressionist paintings in Jeu de Paume, another two hours watching a movie, and then, when she got home, she breezily announced to Antoine that she was coming to feel quite at home at Le Reveil. This way, he wouldn't be worried anymore, and she'd feel at ease for a while. All in all, she felt better lying to  him than lying to herself.

And thus she spent a marvelous two weeks. Paris had been given back to her, along with her status of loafer-- and also the money she needed to enjoy that status. She quickly returned to the lifestyle she'd gotten so used to, bu now as an impostor-- and naturally, the feeling of playing hooky greatly enhanced her pleasure, even in simple things."

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

The Bridge- Shel Silverstein

“This Bridge will only take you halfway there

To those mysterious lands you long to see:

Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fairs

And moonlit woods where unicorns run free.

So come and walk awhile with me and share

The twisting trails and wondrous worlds I’ve known.

But this bridge will only take you halfway there- The last few steps you’ll have to take alone.”

"Lucile looked at him with consternation. Now it was all coming back to her, what they had talked about the night before. Together, they had concluded that Lucile's life was no life at all, and that she had to find something to do. With great gusto she had welcomed the idea of working, and she'd even painted a rosy picture of herself at some newspaper scrambling slowly but steadily toward the top, becoming one of those brilliant female journalists who were the talk of the town in Paris; undoubtedly she would have a lot of work and a lot of worries, but deep down she felt sure she had enough tenacity, humor and ambition to make it. They would have a very swanky apartment paid for by the newspaper, since they would have to throw so many parties, but every year they would escape for at least a month, sailing on the balmy Mediterranean.

She had enthusiastically spun out this glowing image before Antoine last night, who at first had been skeptical but then had gradually warmed up to it, for after all, no one was more persuasive than Lucile when she got to talking about her plans, especially when they were as hare-brained and as unlike herself as this one was. What in the world had she drunk or read last night that had gotten her spinning such a crazy tale? The fact was, she had no more ambition than she had tenacity, and no greater interest in having a career than in killing herself."

Francoise Sagan, La Chamade

"Old boy," said Grimes, "you're in love."

"Nonsense!"

"Smitten?" said Grimes.

"No, no."

"The tender passion?"

"No."

"Cupid's jolly little darts?"

"No."

"Spring fancies, love's young dream?"

"Nonsense!"

"Not even a quickening of the pulse?"

"No."

"A sweet despair?"

"Certainly not."

"A trembling hope?"

"No."

"A frisson? a Je ne sais quoi?"

"Nothing of the sort."

"Liar!" said Grimes." 

Evelyn Waugh, Decline and Fall

Sometimes he would cast a furtive, questioning glance at her. Her laziness, her incredible ability to do nothing  at all and never to think about the future, her remarkable capacity for finding happiness in a long series of empty, inactive, indistinguishable days-- all this struck him at times as outrageous, even verging on repulsive. He knew very well that she loved him and that, for that reason, she wasn't going to grow tired of him any sooner than he would of her, but this situation told him that what he was now seeing of her lifestyle was representative of her deepest essence, and he realized that it was only thanks to their mutual passion that he was able to put up with her perpetual stagnation. 

Francois Sagan, La Chamade

The Crossroads - Jim Morrison

The Crossraods 

a place where ghosts 

reside to whisper into 

the ears of travellers &

 interest them in their fate

Hitchhiker drinks:

 "I call again on the dark

 hidden gods of blood"

-Why do you call us? 

You know our price. It

 never changes. Death of you

 will give you life 

& free you from a 

vile fate. But it is getting late.

-If I could see you again 

& talk w/ you, & walk a 

short while in your company,

 & drink the heady brew

 of your conversations, 

I thought

-to rescue a soul already

 ruined. To achieve respite.

 To plunder green gold

 on a pirate raid & bring

 to camp the glory of old.

-As the capesman faces

 poisoned horns & drinks

 red victory; the soldier,

 too, w/ his trophy, a

 pierced helmet; & the

 ledge-walker shuddering

 his way into inward grace

-(laughter) Well, then. 

Would you mock yourself?

-No.

-Soon our voices must become one, 

or one must leave.

When faced with the loss of sense of self...

• Isolate completely
• Make a fresh pot of tea or fill thermos with hot chocolate 
• Drink in favorite tea cup and saucer or favorite mug
• Accompany with biscuits or any other sweet bread (made while listening to 'The Price of Fear' or 'Radio Mystery Theatre') 
• Curl up in bed / lay on the rug surrounded by pillows
• Watch 'Brideshead Revisited' with Jeremy Irons
• Listen to Tom Hiddleston read Yeats, Auden, Byron and Keats
• Read Victoria Holt
• See what Cordelia and Loren are doing
• Watch La Chamade
• Listen to xxxHolic / Yami no Matsuei / Tsukihinme OST or watch the series
• Read Kaori Yuki
• Watercolor
• Take a walk
• Fall asleep under a tree listening to 'The Vampire Lestat'

If all else fails, go back to Richard, Francis, Henry and the twins-- chapter two. 

Reply to Some Verses of J.M.B. Pigot, Esq. - Lord Byron

Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,

Why thus in despair do you fret?

For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh

Will never obtain a coquette.

Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove;

At first she may frown in a pet;

But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,

And then you may kiss your coquette.

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,

They think all our homage a debt:

Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,

And humbles the proudest coquette.

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,

And seem her hauteur to regret;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny,

That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,

This whimsical virgin forget;

Some other adiaiire, who will melt with your fire,

And laugh at the little coquette.

For me I adore some twenty or more,

And love them most dearly but yet

Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all,

Did they act like your blooming coquette.

No longer repine, adopt this design,

And break through her slight-woven net;

Away with despair, no longer forbear

To fly from the captious coquette.

Then quit her, my friend your bosom defend,

Ere quite with her snares you're beset;

Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart,

Should lead you to curse the coquette.

Sigh no more - William Shakespeare

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more;
 Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea and one on shore,

To one thing constant never;

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny;

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,

Or dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into. Hey, nonny, nonny.

As I Walked Down One Evening - W. H. Auden

...

But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime:

'O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare

Where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

To-morrow or to-day.

...

"It is crucial that you should understand that I love you. Don't think that I'm going to get over you, or that I'll forget you or replace you. I'm way beyond the age to make such substitutions." With a faint smile, he added "I'm telling you, Lucille-- you'll come back to me. I love you for what you are. Antoine loves you for what the two of you are together. He wants to be happy with you, which is how one is at his age. But as for me, I want you to be happy independently of me. I'll just have to be patient.

She attempted a gesture of protest , but he quickly motioned her to wait, he hadn't finished. "Moreover, he'll resent you , or maybe he even resents you already, for what you are: hedonistic, carefree, and rather weak-willed. He won't be able to keep from criticizing you for what he'll call your 'foibles' or your  'defects'. What he does not yet understand is that whatever makes a woman strong is the reason that certain men will love her, even if behind her strengths hide great weaknesses. This he will learn from you. He will learn that you are bubbly, funny, and sweet only because of you have all your weaknesses. But by then it will be too late. At least this is what I believe. And you'll come back to me-- because you know that I know these things." 

Francois Sagan, La Chamade