“Repetition’s love is in truth the only happy love.  Like recollection, it is not disturbed by hope nor by the marvelous anxiety of discovery, neither, however doesn’t have the sorrow of recollection.  It has instead the blissful security of the moment.  Hope is new attire, stiff and starched and splendid.  Still, since it as not yet been tried on, one does not know whether it will suit one, or whether it will fit.  Recollection is discarded clothing which, however lovely it might be, no longer suits one because one has outgrown it.  Repetition is clothing that never becomes worn, that fits snugly and comfortably, that never pulls nor hangs too loosely.“