Her vice takes hold of her again, but she still refrains until some moment when, gnawed by some hideous caprice, she comes aground like a mournful wreck ruined by lust, in the midst of her own banal, perfidious pollution.
Only the virtuous can count on life, the pursuer of evil can only ever count on death.
Never try to lock the virtue’s door with the key of vice
It may lock forever; never to be opened again
A strange girl, all phosphorous and cantharides, burning with every desire! And burning with every vice!
A very special case. A few years more, and that pretty creature who you love too much, I think, will, without ever loving them, have known as many men as there are beads on her aunt’s rosary. No happy medium! Either a nun or a monster! God’s bosom or sensual passions! It would, perhaps, be better to put her in a convent, since we put hysterical women in the Saltpetriere! She does not know vice, she invents it!”
That was ten years ago before the day our story begins and… Raoule was not a nun.
Encouraging virtue is better than suppressing vice.
The Weight of One Feather”
Many fear death
Because they already
Feel ridden with sin,
But no man on this earth
Is filled with only white light
Have more faith
In our Maker,
For our souls and minds
Were created by Him.
Just remember that,
When your deeds
By the scale –
The good side
And your heart
Must be as light
As a feather
He hadn’t a single redeeming vice.
The baronet, in his old age, had been cast up by his vices on the shores of melancholy; heavy-eyed, grey-haired, bent, he seemed to pass through life as in a dream.
(“The Undying Thing”)
The difference is too nice – Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.