"Memories of the past would return to us more often if only we sought them out, sought their intense sweetness. But we let them slumber within us and, worse, we let them die, rot, so much that the generous impulses that sweep through our souls when we are twenty we later call naive, foolish...Our purest, most passionate loves take on the depraved appearance of sordid pleasure".
from 'Fire in the Blood' by Irène Némirovsky; pages 105-6
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