Sublime

He was, if anything, out of place, a man among women, for the atmosphere surrounding Cynthia Gibson was feminine, conspiratorial. I saw that it was the function of the nurse to provide the repartee that he was too sombre to deliver. Yet how he must have loved her! Even now his eyes never left her face. What must one do to inspire such love? Clearly

Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided me and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over"—these words were legible in one of these inscriptions—"you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold

His eyes, staring up into the abyss, had gone flat like deflated balloons. If a lover’s eyes are a clear mountain lake, Byron’s were a stagnant pond. His mouth twisted open in a silent scream.

"If I have memory, if I have being, I am innocent. I intended no ill; but my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have caused it; but what words are these!

you will have heard my story and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of your own speedy ruin."

As with lovers, When it’s right, you can’t say Who is kissing whom.1 —Gregory Orr

William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch.”

Someone asked once, “What is love?” “Be lost in me,” I said.