Art begins when a man, with a purpose of communicating to other people a feeling he once experienced, calls it up again within himself and expresses it by certain external signs.
Leo TolstoyRead
There are as many loves as there are hearts.
Interpretation
Love is subjective and varies for each individual.
In this quote, Leo Tolstoy suggests that love is a deeply personal experience that differs from person to person, indicating that each individual's capacity to love is influenced by their unique emotions, experiences, and heart. This intrinsic connection between love and the individual heart highlights the complexity and diversity of human relationships, as each heart holds its own unique expressions and interpretations of love.
In practice
During a wedding ceremony to express the uniqueness of each couple's love.
Art begins when a man, with a purpose of communicating to other people a feeling he once experienced, calls it up again within himself and expresses it by certain external signs.
Pierre looked into the sky, into the depths of the retreating, twinkling stars. "And all this is mine, and all this is in me, and all this is me!" thought Pierre. "And all this they've caught and put in a shed and boarded it up!
People try to do all sorts of clever and difficult things to improve life instead of doing the simplest, easiest thing-refusing to participate in activities that make life bad.
It's too easy to criticize a man when he's out of favour, and to make him shoulder the blame for everybody else's mistakes.
Music is the shorthand of emotion. Emotions, which let themselves be described in words with such difficulty, are directly conveyed to man in music, and in that is its power and significance.
A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one's neighbor β such is my idea of happiness.
We aren't the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, His hair is as dark as a blackboard. I wish he was mine, he's really divine, The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.
Once I fall in love, finishing a story leaves a hole in my heart. The characters become your friends.
Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.
Perhaps love is a minor madness. And as with madness, it's unendurable alone. The one person who can relieve us is of course the sole person we cannot go to: the one we love. So instead we seek out allies, even among strangers and wives, fellow patients who, if they can't touch the edge of our particular sorrow, have felt something that cuts nearly as deep.
Even Kings and emperors with heaps of wealth and vast dominion cannot compare with an ant filled with the love of God.
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