Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists. . . . When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence
- Edmond de Goncourt (1822-96) and Jules de Goncourt (1830-70), French writers.
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