About Love, um conto de Tchekov. Aqui vai um excerto:

" I took her in my arms, she pressed her face to my breast, and tears flowed from her eyes. Kissing her face, her shoulders, her hands wet with tears -- oh, how unhappy we were! -- I confessed my love for her, and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty, and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue in their accepted meaning, or you must not reason at all.

I kissed her for the last time, pressed her hand, and parted for ever. The train had already started. I went into the next compartment -- it was empty -- and until I reached the next station I sat there crying. "