Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
W. H. AudenRead
Money cannot buy the fuel of love but is excellent kindling.
Interpretation
Money cannot create love, but it can support romantic gestures.
This quote suggests that while love is an intrinsic emotional bond that cannot be purchased or manufactured, financial resources can enhance romantic experiences and opportunities. Love is built on genuine feelings and connections, yet money can play a role in nurturing those feelings by providing a means to express them through kind acts or gifts.
In practice
During a wedding toast, to emphasize the importance of emotional connection over material gifts.
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
That the speech of self-disclosure should be translatable seems to me very odd, but I am convinced that it is. The conclusion that I draw is that the only quality which all human being without exception possess is uniqueness: any characteristic, on the other hand, which one individual can be recognized as having in common with another, like red hair or the English language, implies the existence of other individual qualities which this classification excludes.
Nobody knows what the cause is, though some pretend they do; it like some hidden assassin waiting to strike at you. Childless women get it, and men when they retire; it as if there had to be some outlet for their foiled creative fire.
History is, strictly speaking, the study of questions; the study of answers belongs to anthropology and sociology.
Music is the best means we have of digesting time.
'Healing,' Papa would tell me, 'is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.'
Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return -- that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.
Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.
In this sense love is of a different order to any other phenomenon, for it may be both an event and a sign of that invisible mechanism I spoke of before; perhaps the finest sign, the most certain. In itβs throes we need neither luck nor science. We are the wheel, and the man who profits by it. We are the star, and the darkness it pierces. We are the butterfly, brief and beautiful.
The Mask "Put off that mask of burning gold With emerald eyes." "O no, my dear, you make so bold To find if hearts be wild and wise, And yet not cold." "I would but find what's there to find, Love or deceit." "It was the mask engaged your mind, And after set your heart to beat, Not what's behind." "But lest you are my enemy, I must enquire." "O no, my dear, let all that be, What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?"
Nothing else wounds so deeply and irreparably. Nothing else robs us of hope so much as being unloved by one we love
I love you so much that nothing can matter to me - not even you...Only my love- not your answer. Not even your indifference
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