'...Like so many who do not confess it, he had been awaiting always the meeting with that impossible person, that rare, unique, poetic, and passionate affection, the dream of which hovers over our hearts. Had he not almost grasped it? Might not she have given him that well-nigh impossible happiness? Wherefore is it, then, that nothing is realized? Why can we seize nothing of that which we pursue, or only snatches which render still more grievous this chase after illusions?'
from Fort Comme La Mort by Guy de Maupassant (Chapter I)
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