Love is the self-delusion we manufacture to justify the trouble we take to have sex.

People would never fall in love if they had never heard love talked about.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

One seeks to make the loved one entirely happy, or, if that cannot be, entirely wretched.

These are the things I know: you always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder; plant rosemary at your gate; keep lavender for luck; and fall in love whenever possible.

One hour of right-down love is worth an age of dully living on.

Everyone has a gripping stranger in their lives, Andy, a stranger who unwittingly possesses a bizarre hold over you. Maybe it's the kid in cutoffs who mows your lawn or the woman wearing white shoulders who stamps your book at the library - a stranger who, if you were to come home and find a message from them on your answering machine saying, 'Drop everything. I love you. Come away with me now to Florida,' you'd follow them.

When you really want love you will find it waiting for you.

I can understand companionship. I can understand purchased sex in the afternoon. I cannot understand the love affair.

Many who have spent a lifetime in it can tell us less of love than the child that lost a dog yesterday.