The man receiving this smile hurried away with it as with a fateful gift. He was so deeply shaken that he was forced to flee the light of the Terrence, the front gardens, and he hastily sought the darkness of the park behind the hostel. Strangely indignant and affectionate exhortations were wrung from him: “You musn’t smile like that! Listen, you mustn’t smile at anyone like that!” He flung himself on a bench, he was beside himself, he breathed the nocturnal fragrance of the plants. And leaning back, with dangling arms, overwhelmed, and shuddering again and again, he whispered the standard formula of desire—impossible here, absurd, abject, ludicrous and yet sacred, and honorable even here: “I love you!”
Death in Venice, Thomas Mann
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