(In order to avoid losing your place on this page when viewing a
different link, I would suggest that you right click on that link
with your mouse and select “open in a new tab”. Then, when you have
finished reading that link, close the tab and you will return to
where you left off on this page. FWIW!)
Just as the strongest hatred never arrives at a fully satisfying revenge, our acts of love will never be complete, never be without human limitation, but they are all the more lovely, all the more human, because we rise to the attempt. This is why a handful of daisies, gathered by a child who loves his mother, is much more an esteemed expression of love than a dozen roses, purchased online with a credit card and delivered by the florist. The greater the discrepancy between the ardor of the lover and the perfection of the gift, the more we admire such unrepentant romanticism as the truest of loves.
("A year or so back the TV presenter Tony Robinson did a series on the worst jobs in history, trying to get a flavour of what it might have been like to do some of the jobs our ancestors did. How about being a leech collector, for example...")
