" People despair of love stupidly – I have despaired of it myself — they live in servitude to this idea that love is always behind them, never before them: bygone years, lies about forgetting after twenty years. They can bear to admit – and force themselves to – that love is not for them, with its procession of clarities, with this look it casts upon the world from all the eyes of diviners. They are limping with fallacious memories, for which they even invent the origin of an immemorial fall, so as not to find themselves too guilty. And yet for each, the promise of each coming hour contains life's whole life secret, perhaps about to be revealed one day, possibly in another being. "

― André Breton , Mad Love