Love is union with somebody, or something, outside oneself, under the condition of retaining the separateness and integrity of one's own self.

There is hardly any activity, any enterprise, which is started with such tremendous hopes and expectations, and yet which fails so regularly, as love.

It seems that it is madder never to abandon one's self than often to be infatuated; better to be wounded, a captive and a slave, than always to walk in armor.

There is more pleasure in loving than in being beloved.

Love makes use of the worst traps. The least noble. The rarest. It exploits coincidence.

Even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Love is the irresistible desire to be desired irresistibly.

A life without love, without the presence of the beloved, is nothing but a mere magic-lantern show. We draw out slide after slide, swiftly tiring of each, and pushing it back to make haste for the next.

Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an object intercourse between tyrants and slaves.

When one loves somebody, everything is clear- where to go, what to do-it all takes care of itself and one doesn't have to ask anybody about anything.