But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a
passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man is the
craving for identity with the woman that he loves. He desires to
see with the same eyes, to touch with the same sense of touch, to
hear with the same ears, to lose his identity, to be enveloped, to be
supported. For, whatever may be said of the relation of the sexes,
there is no man who loves a woman that does not desire to come to
her for the renewal of his courage, for the cutting asunder of his
difficulties. And that will be the mainspring of his desire for her.
We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the
outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist. So, for a
time, if such a passion come to fruition, the man will get what he
wants. He will get the moral support, the encouragement, the relief
from the sense of loneliness, the assurance of his own worth. But
these things pass away; inevitably they pass away as the shadows
pass across sundials. It is sad, but it is so. The pages of the book
will become familiar; the beautiful corner of the road will have
been turned too many times. Well, this is the saddest story.
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