De l'Horrible Danger de la Vie Intérieure

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” A gasp. A shudder. A moan. Finally, a deep-seeded need, the need to have him, the need to know him, the need for him to exist. This is how it all started, with tales as old as times, with authors twisting, spinning words until only feelings are left. Your interior life is the place where those characters, those stories implant themselves and evolve endlessly. The great lady herself said: “A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.” Madame Bovary only new too well the meaning of those words, as we read, "Un infini de passion peut tenir dans une minute", an infinite of passion can be contained in one minute. And we, following her, only know too well the consequences of such thoughts. Yet, the interior life is where our imagination, our life can soar. In the end, the interior life is as dangerous to us, as reading was to Voltaire… Well, at least I hope so.