August 18, 2021

It is your turn now, Rumi

It is your turn now,
you waited, you were patient.
The time has come,
for us to polish you.
We will transform your inner pearl
into a house of fire.
You’re a gold mine.
Did you know that,
hidden in the dirt of the earth?
It is your turn now,
to be placed in fire.
Let us cremate your impurities.

August 13, 2021

Victor Hugo to Adèle Foucher

1821 Paris 
My dearest,

When two souls, who have sought each other for however long in the throng, have finally found each other… a union, fiery and pure as they themselves are… begins on earth and continues forever in heaven.
This union is love, true love,… a religion, which deifies the loved one, whose life comes from devotion and passion, and for whom the greatest sacrifices are the sweetest delights.
This is the love that you inspire in me… Your soul is made to love with the purity and passion of angels; but perhaps it can only love another angel, in which case I must tremble with apprehension.

Yours forever,
Victor Hugo

Lord Byron to Lady Caroline Lamb

August 1812, London 
My dearest Caroline,
If tears, which you saw & know I am not apt to shed, if the agitation in which I parted from you, agitation which you must have perceived through the whole of this most nervous nervous affair, did not commence till the moment of leaving you approached, if all that I have said & done, & am still but too ready to say & do, have not sufficiently proved what my real feelings are & must be ever towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer.
God knows I wish you happy, & when I quit you, or rather when you from a sense of duty to your husband & mother quit me, you shall acknowledge the truth of what I again promise & vow, that no other in word or deed shall ever hold the place in my affection which is & shall be most sacred to you, till I am nothing.
I never knew till that moment, the madness of—my dearest & most beloved friend—I cannot express myself—this is no time for words—but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can hardly conceive—for you do not know me.—I am now about to go out with a heavy heart, because—my appearing this evening will stop any absurd story which the events of today might give rise to—do you think now that I am cold & stern, & artful—will even others think so, will your mother even—that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much, more much more on my part, than she shall ever know or can imagine.
“Promises not to love you” ah Caroline it is past promising—but shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive—& never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed—& more than can ever be known but to my own heart—perhaps to yours—May God protect forgive & bless you—ever & even more than ever.
yr. most attached

P.S.—These taunts which have driven you to this—my dearest Caroline—were it not for your mother & the kindness of all your connections, is there anything on earth or heaven would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago? & not less now than then, but more than ever at this time—you know I would with pleasure give up all here & all beyond the grave for you—& in refraining from this—must my motives be misunderstood—? I care not who knows this—what use is made of it—it is you & to you only that they owe yourself, I was and am yours, freely & most entirely, to obey, to honour, love—& fly with you when, where, & how you yourself might & may determine.

Napoléon Bonaparte to Joséphine de Beauharnais

Spring 1797, Cisalpine Republic, Northern Italy

To Joséphine,
I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a wretch, truly perverse, foolish Cinderella. You never write me; you do not love your husband; you know what pleasures your letters give him yet you cannot even manage to write him half a dozen lines, dashed off in a moment! What then do you do all day, Madame? What business is so vital that it robs you of the time to write to your devoted lover? What affection stifles and pushes aside the love, the tender constant love you promised him? Who can this wonderful new lover be who takes up your every moment, rules your days and prevents your giving any attention to your husband?
Beware, Josephine; one fine night the doors will be broken down and there I will be.  In truth, I am worried, my love, at receiving no news of you; write me quickly four pages, pages of those delightful words that will fill my heart with emotion and joy. I hope to hold you in my arms before long, and cover you with a million kisses, burning as the equatorial sun.