Our love isn’t a story I can pull out of the context of my life in order to tell it to myself. It exists outside of myself; we bear it together. Closing one’s eyes isn’t enough to do away with the sun; disavowing that love is only blinding myself. No, I rejected cautious thinking, and false solitude, and sordid consolations. And I realized immediately that that rejection was still another sham; the truth is I was in no way master of my heart. I was powerless against that anguish which gripped me each time I opened one of his letters, and my sensible speeches would never fill the emptiness inside of me.