... We are two, that is all.

The same current of the spirit--if not the same spirit--drives its waves
through us. The same flame--if not the same heart--mounts within us. The
same love of truth--if not the same truth--throws the light of day
between us. And nothing but silence is needed for us to be close and
united.

We love each other better than ever; we no longer talk to each other.

Had anyone said to me the first day of our marriage: "You will want to
explain everything to him, what you are, what you see, what you wish;
you will want to find out from him what he is, what he sees, what he
wishes; you will also want to find out what in both of you is
reconcilable and perhaps, above all, what is irreconcilable: this is his
concern or interest, this is your concern or interest," I should have
nodded my head. "Yes, exactly."

But if I had also been told: "A day will come when you will have nothing
more to learn of each other, nothing more to tell each other; without
mutual explanations you will understand everything," I should have
denied the possibility. I should have cried out that a whole century
wouldn't be enough to bring two human beings into harmony, because human
beings change from second to second. I should have said it was
blasphemy.

But the day did come.

There is a region of soft azure outlines where words have been
extinguished. _He_ exists and I exist.

It is a little green arbor where nothing, in short, binds us together,
neither the flaming leafage, nor the smell of invisible murmuring water,
nor the languishing hour; neither the nights past and gone, nor the days
to come, nor the little child asleep at home in his cradle. If anything
binds us together, it is the freedom that each of us has found, nothing
else.

* * * * *

One must never say "This is love," for love is the heaven that the heart
has in prospect, and the whole of space is yet to be traversed.... It is
an immense feeling which speaks and impels you and is made up of
certainty and clearness.

I am sure of him.

He might see a weapon of crime in my hands--or at least some symbolic
weapon, something he holds a crime--without a shrug of his shoulders.
Remembering that my tenderness is unfailing, he would say to me "all
right," then he would come to me to find out why what I was doing was
right.

And he is sure of me. He could leave us, his hearth, his love, his
child, without so much as a glanc