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Sunday 19th
My beloved angel,
I am nearly mad about you, as much as one can be mad: I cannot bring
together two ideas that you do not interpose yourself between them.
I can no longer think of anything but you. In spite of myself, my
imagination carries me to you. I grasp you, I kiss you, I caress
you, a thousand of the most amorous caresses take possession of me.
As for my heart, there you will always be - very much so. I have a
delicious sense of you there. But my God, what is to become of me,
if you have deprived me of my reason? This is a monomania which,
this morning, terrifies me.
I rise up every moment saying to myself, "Come, I am going
there!" Then I sit down again, moved by the sense of my
obligations. There is a frightful conflict. This is not
life. I have never before been like that. You have devoured
everything.
I feel foolish and happy as soon as I think of you. I whirl round
in a delicious dream in which in one instant I live a thousand years.
What a horrible situation!
Overcome with love, feeling love in every pore, living only for love,
and seeing oneself consumed by griefs, and caught in a thousand spiders'
threads.
O, my darling Eva, you did not know it. I picked up your card.
It is there before me, and I talk to you as if you were there. I
see you, as I did yesterday, beautiful, astonishingly beautiful.
Yesterday, during the whole evening, I said to myself "she is
mine!" Ah! The angels are not as happy in Paradise as I was
yesterday!
Honore de Balzac, French writer, to Evelina Hanska, a Polish countess,
June 1836.
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