Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
W. H. AudenRead
Money cannot buy the fuel of love but is excellent kindling.
Interpretation
Money cannot create love, but it can support romantic gestures.
This quote suggests that while love is an intrinsic emotional bond that cannot be purchased or manufactured, financial resources can enhance romantic experiences and opportunities. Love is built on genuine feelings and connections, yet money can play a role in nurturing those feelings by providing a means to express them through kind acts or gifts.
In practice
During a wedding toast, to emphasize the importance of emotional connection over material gifts.
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
That the speech of self-disclosure should be translatable seems to me very odd, but I am convinced that it is. The conclusion that I draw is that the only quality which all human being without exception possess is uniqueness: any characteristic, on the other hand, which one individual can be recognized as having in common with another, like red hair or the English language, implies the existence of other individual qualities which this classification excludes.
Nobody knows what the cause is, though some pretend they do; it like some hidden assassin waiting to strike at you. Childless women get it, and men when they retire; it as if there had to be some outlet for their foiled creative fire.
History is, strictly speaking, the study of questions; the study of answers belongs to anthropology and sociology.
Music is the best means we have of digesting time.
'Healing,' Papa would tell me, 'is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.'
Love is what we are in our essence, and the more love we feel in our hearts, the more it will be brought to us.
I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep... Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.
But love, whether in Multan or on Siberia's icy tundra, whether in the winter or the summer, whether among the rich or the poor, whether among the beautiful or the ugly, whether among the crude or refined, love is always just love. There's no difference.
My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.
You always fed strays and bent down to talk to the dogs you met on the street, looking straight into their eyes as if they were old friends. (Maybe they are, you said. From another life.) You liked to go to the pound and look at them. You tried to send them messages of comfort. I couldnβt go because I started crying the one time I tried. All those eyes and the barks like sobs.
The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing.
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