When a man conclusively exalts one woman, and one woman only, 'above all others,' you can be pretty sure you are dealing with a misogynist. It frees him up for thinking the rest are shit.

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Love is an abstract noun, something nebulous. And yet love turns out to be the only part of us that is solid, as the world turns upside down and the screen goes black.

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We are so lightly here. It is in love that we are made. In love we disappear.

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The power of love is not properly gauged if it is estimated only by the object that inspires it, if the tension preceding it is not taken into account - that gloomy space of disillusionment and loneliness which stretches in front of all the great events of the heart.

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But love truly becomes love only when, no longer an embryo developing painfully in the darkness of the body, it ventures to confess itself with lips and breath. However hard it tries to remain a chrysalis, a time comes when the intricate tissue of the cocoon tears, and out it falls, dropping from the heights to the farthest depths, falling with redoubled force into the startled heart.

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You can never be wise and be in love at the same time.

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No one will ever know how many novels, poems, analyses, confessions, sufferings and joys have been piled up on this continent called Love, without it ever having turned out to be totally investigated.

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Love loves to love love.

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You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.

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She knew that you could love somebody more than anything and still not love the person all that much, if you were busy with other things.

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