It was too strong, too crude.
Love was like certain women, beautiful as goddesses under a discreet and artificial light, but horrible as monsters under the burning splendors of the sun.
"Believe me; put away these bugbears of the past.

Is not the present enough for you ?...

Are you not happy ?" And, trying to convince him that he was, she redoubled her exertions, chaining Ulysses in bonds which were sweet yet weighed heavily upon him.

Strongly convinced of his vileness, he nevertheless adored and detested this woman, with her tireless sensuality....

And it was impossible to separate himself from her!...
Anxious to find some excuse, he recalled the image of his cook philosophizing in his culinary dominion.