Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.
No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to continue in, and make no effort to escape from.
I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music.
Love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little and little on the domain of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the keenness of the first anguish.
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