November 6, 1852.—I am capable of all
the passions, for I bear them all within me. Like a tamer of wild
beasts, I keep them caged and lassoed, but I sometimes hear them
growling. I have stifled more than one
nascent love. Why? Because
with that prophetic certainty which belongs to moral intuition, I
felt it lacking in
true life, and less durable than myself. I choked
it down in the name of the supreme affection to come. The
loves of
sense, of imagination, of sentiment, I have seen through and rejected
them all; I sought the love
which springs from the central
profundities of being. And I still believe in it. I will have none of
those
passions of straw which dazzle, burn up, and wither; I invoke,
I await, and I hope for the love which is great,
pure and earnest,
which lives and works in all the fibres and through all the powers of
the soul. And even if I
go lonely to the end, I would rather my hope
and my dream died with me, than that my soul should content
itself
with any meaner union.
Amiel's Journal
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