I believed that I was approaching the end of my days without having tasted to the full any of the pleasures for which my heart thirsted. . . without having ever tasted that passion which, through lack of an object, was always suppressed. . . . The impossibility of attaining the real persons precipitated me into the land of chimeras; and seeing nothing that existed worthy of my exalted feelings, I fostered them in an ideal world which my creative imagination soon peopled with beings after my own heart.
Where is delight? and what are pleasures now?-Moths that a garment fret. The world is turned memorial, crying, "ThouShalt not forget!