Special Valentine's Day Edition

Here are two Valentines from my grandmother's postcard collection.  (See, it wasn't always just a Hallmark holiday!)  The one below with the burglar cupid on it reads, "CHC, 1912" on the back, so it was given to my grandmother, Caroline How Collier, when she was two years old.   

As for my heart, well, I've always identified with this quote by some obscure French guy named Proust:

Pleasure is like photography.  What we take, in the presence of the beloved object, is merely a negative film; we develop it later, when we are at home and have once again found at our disposal that inner darkroom, the entrance to which is barred to us so long as we are with other people.

That used to be from a book called Remembrance of Things Passed, but it's now from a book called In Search of Lost Time.  (I rather like the first title--taken from a Shakespeare sonnet--but the new title is a more accurate translation from the French and therefore more correct in literary circles.  Yawn.)