What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice.
We loved each other. It was probably an impossible love, but it was our love.
It seemed an act partly sublime, but also filled with all the frenetic, damp, clasping after life that came from certain knowledge of it slipping away.
And love doesn’t disappear just because of the vile unworthiness of the loved one.
Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned,
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorned
There’s no such thing as love: only proofs of love.
Marriage: the single biggest enemy of love
He listened with the intense interest one feels in a stranger’s life, the interest the young mistake for love.
Why does one imagine that one is in love? He had read somewhere that love had been invented in the eleventh century by the troubadours. Why had they not left us with lust? He said with hopeless venom, “I love you.” He thought: it’s a lie, the word means nothing off the printed page.
Love was the wish to understand, and presently with constant failure the wish died, and love died too perhaps or changed into this painful affection …
Oh, life is a toil and love is a trouble,
Beauty will fade and riches will flee,
Pleasures they dwindle and prices they double,
And nothing is as I would wish it to be.
That abandonment of personality that is a possible prelude to love
Love must take the consequences.
Because love is the saddest thing
When it goes away.
“I love you anyway.”
“You only love yourself: and even then, not enough.”
… And love was only a short moment of forgetfulness, a short intoxication, whose delight one remembered with a sense of sadness, as if it had been a deep grief lived through.
In love the truth is of no importance.
When two people love, they don’t love in the same way. One of them is stronger, the other weaker.
Love is a loathsome business.
It’s not the worst thing in the world to find out that you love your husband.
In true love and authentic jealousy are not chimeras and delusions the great realities?
Love is a lottery and the winning ticket brings but death.
Can’t be a sin.
And even if it were,
I wouldn’t care.
A string of ’em from Owen Parry’s Abel Jones novels:
The pure hatred that is a continuation of love
Love is robust, but our small lives are not.
It can be difficult … to distinguish love from pride of possession.
We need someone to give to , that is the soul of it.
Jealousy got no more sense to it than love.
Love was indeed invented by the troubadours in the eleventh century court of Marie de France. The invention was aural but Andreas Capellanus wrote it down. My section on meta-oxymoron in Shakespeare’s sonnets goes into the Art of Courtly Love somewhat further, but the reason I insert this note today is not to make that connection, already somewhat understood. Neither is it to connect Courtly Love or the Court of Marie de France with the cult of the Grail, connecting Jesus and Mary Magdalene with ordinary generation. No: stimulated by Leonard Shlain’s book on gender and human evolution, I want to celebrate the connection between women’s invention of love by discovering time (150,000 years ago plus or minus 100,000 years): and therefore parenthood. and therefore responsibility.
|Quotes||Quotes by Topic||Quotes re: pk|