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Under the red clay banks that rose above the sluggish stream, robbers' caves, and treasure houses, and freebooters' dens, were filled with boys who, five days in the week and six hours a day, could "amo amas amat, amamus amatus amant" with the best of them.
She could have spat at them and their silly ardors over the same old banality: I love him; he loves me beatitude! I love him; he loves her tragedy! The novelists were like stupid children parroting the ancient monotony amo, amas, amat; amamus, amatis, amant; amo, amas, amat away with such primer stuff! She had learned the grammar of love and was graduated from the school-books.
He did not yet know, at least not directly from the text, the dialogues of Plato, and he is already inclined to Platonism. He was this by nature. His Christianity will be a religion all of light and beauty. For him, the supreme Beauty is identical with the supreme Love. "Do we love anything," he used to say to his friends, "except what is beautiful?" Num amamus aliquid, nisi pulchrum?
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