CLVI
Since 1530 tyranny à la Philip II has so degraded men's intellect, has so overshadowed the garden of the world, that the poor Italian writers have not yet plucked up enough courage to invent a national novel. Yet, thanks to the naturalness which reigns there, nothing could be simpler. They need only copy faithfully what stares the world in the face. Think of Cardinal Gonzalvi, for three hours gravely looking for flaws in the libretto of an opera-bouffe, and saying uneasily to the composer: "But you're continually repeating this word Cozzar, cozzar."
CLVII
Héloïse speaks of love, a coxcomb of his love—don't you see that these things have really nothing but their name in common? Just so, there is the love of concerts and the love of music: the love of successes that tickle your vanity—successes your harp may bring you in the midst of a brilliant society—or the love of a tender day-dream, solitary and timid.
CLVIII
When you have just seen the woman you love, the sight of any other woman spoils your vision, gives your eyes physical pain. I know why.
CLIX
Reply to an objection:—
Perfect naturalness in intimate intercourse can find no place but in passion-love, for in all the other kinds of love a man feels the possibility of a favoured rival.