There is no mother's milk to-day, save in tigers' udders, and in the udders of sea-whales.

Our children drink a decoction of ideal love, at the breast.
Never for one moment, poor baby, the deep warm stream of love from the mother's bowels to his bowels.

Never for one moment the dark proud recoil into rest, the soul's separation into deep, rich independence.
Never this lovely rich forgetfulness, as a cat trots off and utterly forgets her kittens, utterly, richly forgets them, till suddenly, click, the dynamic circuit reverses itself in her, and she remembers, and rages round in a frenzy, shouting for her young.
Our miserable infants never know this joy and richness and pang of real maternal warmth.

Our wonderful mothers never let us out of their minds for one single moment.

Not for a second do they allow us to escape from their ideal benevolence.