La Nausée est restée là-bas, dans la lumière jaune. Je suis heureux: ce froid est si pur, si pure cette nuit; ne suis-je pas moi-même une vague d’air glacé? N’avoir ni sang, ni lymphe, ni chair. Couler dans ce long canal vers cette pâleur là-bas. N’être que du froid.

Jean-Paul Sartre, La Nausée, 1938

Jacopo Negretti also called Palma il Giovane (1544-1628), The Death of Lucretia

Joseph Wright of Derby, Study of a Melancholy Woman, 1775

Johann Heinrich Tischbein l’Ancien, Didon sur le point de se poignarder, 1776

Georges de la Tour, Madeleine pénitente, 1640

William Merritt Chase, Portrait of a Lady, 1890

Francois Gerard, Corinne in Cape Misenum, 19th century

Get Well Soon - La Chanson d’Hélène

Wilhelm August Amberg, Meditation, c. 1880

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Jane Morris: Study for Mariana, 1868

Carlo Dolci, Saint Catherine of Siena, 1665-70

Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.

Louis de Bernières, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, 1994

Jan Sanders van Hemessen, Vanity, c.1535 

Camille Corot, Rêverie, 1860-65

El Greco, Mary Magdalene, 1580-85