Explore "The Dead Woman" by Guy De Maupassant on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I had loved her to distraction. Why do we love? It is a strange thing to see in the whole world only one being, have in one's mind only a single thought, a single desire in one's heart, a single name on one's lips: a name rising there continually, rising, as a river rises from its source, from the depths of our soul, so that we murmur it all day long, everywhere, like a prayer.
I will not set out our story. Love has no more than one story, always the same. I had met her and loved her. That tells all. And for a whole year I had lived in her affection, in her arms, in her caresses, in her glance, in her garments, in her words, wrapped round in them, bound, held fast in all that was part of her, in so utter a fashion that I no longer knew whether it was day or night, whether I died or lived, on this old earth or on some other world.