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…I believe there comes a point in love, once and no more, which later on the soul seeks — yes, seeks in vain — to surpass; I believe that happiness wears out in the effort made to recapture it; that nothing is more fatal to happiness than the remembrance of happiness. Alas! I remember that night…
André Paul Guillaume Gide, 22 November 1869 to 19 February 1951, The Immoralist, First Part, Chapter 8.
When I tell people that I admire Gide’s style perhaps above all other authors, I am surprised that this is often met with surprise: it seems that Gide’s “shock value” as an author continues to be associated with his name to a greater extent than his actual literary contribution, which is unfortunate. For sheer beauty of expression, Gide has few if any peers.