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17 April, 1939 (London)
I cannot live without you. This last week, beginning from today, is torture. I want to go home, to my own corner, my energy is running dry, I’m wildly tired, I can’t stand it anymore.
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19 March, 1937 (Paris)
My darling, my life, my dear love. I forbid you to be miserable, I love you and… there’s no power in the world that could take away or spoil even an inch of this endless love.
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“everything is narrative and therefore nothing matters” is a lot more comforting than the much truer “everything is narrative and therefore everything matters”
