Marcel Proust 1871 - 1922 In the Midst of Winter

From Letters

. . . . You will not be cured, but . . . one day (an idea that will horrify you now) this intolerable misfortune will become a blessed memory of a being who will never again leave you.  But you are in a stage of unhappiness where it is impossible for you to have faith in these reassurances. 

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