Weather is a literary specialty, and no untrained hand can turn out a good article on it
Mark TwainRead
Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of all growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century.
Interpretation
True love takes time to develop and requires patience and experience.
This quote by Mark Twain highlights the maturation process of love and emphasizes that understanding the depth of love cannot be rushed. It suggests that real, profound love is developed over time, particularly through long-lasting relationships such as marriage, which can only reveal its true nature after many years together.
In practice
This quote can be shared during a wedding anniversary celebration to reflect on how love evolves over the years.
Weather is a literary specialty, and no untrained hand can turn out a good article on it
The easy part of being an artist is figuring out the message that everyone else is ready to hear. The hard part is waiting for the proper lull to make the announcement.
You can't reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns.
To be good is noble; but to show others how to be good is nobler and no trouble.
Name the greatest of all inventors. Accident.
In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.
Live simply, love generously, care deeply, speak kindly, leave the rest to God.
Love in marriage should be the accomplishment of a beautiful dream, and not, as it too often is, the end.
On the beach, at dawn: Four small stones clearly Hugging each other. How many kinds of love Might there be in the world, And how many formations might they make And who am I ever To imagine I could know Such a marvelous business? When the sun broke It poured willingly its light Over the stones That did not move, not at all, Just as, to its always generous term, It shed its light on me, My own body that loves, Equally, to hug another body.
When you go, if you go, And I should want to die, there's nothing I'd be saved by more than the time you fell asleep in my arms in a trust so gentle I let the darkening room drink up the evening, till rest, or the new rain lightly roused you awake. I asked if you heard the rain in your dream and half dreaming still you only said, I love you.
Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.
Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country.
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