To be blind and to be loved, is in fact - on this earth where nothing is complete - one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness. To have continually at your side a woman... who is there because you need her, and because she cannot do without you, to know you are indispensable to someone necessary to you...
To see the thought if not the face; to be sure of the fidelity of one being in a total eclipse of the world; to imagine the rustling of her dress as the rustling of wings; to hear her moving to and fro, going out, coming in, talking, singing, to think that you are the cause of those steps, those words, that song; to show your personal attraction at every moment; to feel even more powerful as your infirmity increases; to become in darkness, and by reason of darkness, the star around which this angel gravitates; few joys can equal that.
The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves - say rather, loved in spite of ourselves; the conviction the blind have. In their calamity, to be served is to be caressed. Are they deprived of anything? No. Light is not lost where love enters. And what a love! A love wholly founded in purity.
There is no blindness where there is certainty.
Victor Hugo ~ Les Misérables