Vale Dorothea Tanning, 1910–2012
My love was so anchored, so final, that a wisp of regret sometimes swept over it, an odd little cloud: I would never know love’s despair, its changes, its vanities, its hopes, its anguish; love’s pain would not be granted me. It was like the time I had wanted to be mad, not knowing my good fortune. — Dorothea Tanning, 2001
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