When Bertolt Brecht - perhaps my all-time favorite German author - was 56, near the end of his life, he wrote one of my favorite poems (my hasty translation):What PleasesThe first gaze out the window of a morning
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no one is allowed to use the word "lover" in a sentence seriouly without being made fun of. same could be said of the word "soul." consider yourself made fun of....
same could be said of the word "soul."
consider yourself made fun of....
lover.
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