Those who cannot bravely face danger are the slaves of their attackers.
AristotleRead
Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.
Interpretation
True love is a deep connection that transcends physical presence.
Aristotle's quote suggests that love is not merely a relationship between two individuals but rather the union of their souls, indicating a profound emotional and spiritual bond. This deep connection implies that love goes beyond physical existence; it encompasses a shared identity, experiences, and mutual understanding that allows two people to feel like one entity.
In practice
This quote can be brought up during a wedding ceremony to emphasize the bond of the couple.
Those who cannot bravely face danger are the slaves of their attackers.
For often, when one is asleep, there is something in consciousness which declares that what then presents itself is but a dream.
You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor.
But if nothing but soul, or in soul mind, is qualified to count, it is impossible for there to be time unless there is soul, but only that of which time is an attribute, i.e. if change can exist without soul.
The whole is more than the sum of its parts.
The sun, moving as it does, sets up processes of change and becoming and decay, and by its agency the finest and sweetest water is every day carried up and is dissolved into vapour and rises to the upper region, where it is condensed again by the cold and so returns to the earth. This, as we have said before, is the regular course of nature.
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.
But from a distance. I would have left you whole and wholly for the delectation of those who wanted more and cared less.
Separated lovers cheat absence by a thousand fancies which have their own reality. They are prevented from seeing one another and they cannot write; nevertheless they find countless mysterious ways of corresponding, by sending each other the song of birds, the scent of flowers, the laughter of children.
We're not broken, just bent, and we can learn to love again.
Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
Love isn't any one good thing; it's a very, very strange mishmash of emotions. Your love for somebody is, oftentimes, informed by the terrible things you might believe about yourself, and comparatively, the person you see them as is everything that you're not.
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