The heathen philosopher, when he had a mind to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open.
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
This old man,” I said at length, “is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the ‘Hortulus Animæ’[1] and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen.’”
How wild a history,” I said to myself, “is written within that bosom!
Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain
er lasst sich nicht lesen
Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.
La Bruyère.
Itself – alone by itself – eternally one and single.
Plato, Sympos.