Quando gli dei vogliono punirci, avverano i nostri desideri. - Karen Blixen

To die for the one you loved was an effort too sweet for words.

If I know a song of Africa, — I thought, — of the Giraffe, and the African new moon lying on her back, of the ploughs in the fields, and the sweaty faces of the coffee-pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Would the air over the plain quiver with a colour that I had had on, or the children invent a game in which my name was, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or would the eagles of Ngong look out for me? I

It never has happened, and it never will happen, and that is why it is told.