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“I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.”
— T. S. Eliot, “Hysteria,” in The Waste Land, Prufrock and Other Poems (Dover Publications, Inc., 1998).
“Despite the clamors and the violence, we tried to preserve in our hearts the memory of a happy sea, of a remembered hill, the smile of a beloved face. For that matter, this was our best weapon, the one we shall never put away. For as soon as we lost it we should be as dead as you are. But we know now that the weapons of happiness cannot be forged without considerable time and too much blood.”
— Albert Camus, Resistance, Rebellion, and Death (Letters to a German Friend)