Ninotchka, Count Léon d’Algout

Oh, you analyze everything out of existence. You’d analyze me out of existence, but I won’t let you. Love isn’t so simple, Ninotchka. Ninotchka, why do doves bill and coo? Why do snails, the coldest of all creatures, circle interminably around each other? Why do moths fly hundreds of miles to find their mates? Why do flowers slowly open their petals? Oh, Ninotchka, Ninotchka, surely you feel some slight symptom of the divine passion? A general warmth in the palms of your hands, a strange heaviness in your limbs, a burning of the lips that isn’t thirst but something a thousand times more tantalizing, more exalting, than thirst?