For Discontent already creeps into each of these happy households, and under her fox-skin hood says, "Let me in—I am Progress."
In most men and women, Love waking wakes, with itself, the soul.
In poets Love waking kills it.
When God gives genius, I think He makes the brain of some strange, glorious stuff, that takes all strength out of the character, and all sight out of the eyes. Those artists—they are like the birds we blind: they sing, and make people weep for very joy to hear them; but they cannot see their way to peck the worms, and are for ever wounding their breasts against the wires. No doubt it is a great thing to have genius; but it is a sort of sickness after all; and when love comes—
Lippo knew that wise men do not do harm to whatever they may hate.
They drive it on to slay itself.