Love… The reason I don’t like that word is because it means too much to me, far more than you can understand.[Любовь… Я оттого и не люблю этого слова, что оно для меня слишком много значит, больше гораздо, чем вы можете понять.]
Love! Love until the night collapses!
Love, yes. Word known to all men.
Love, the poet has said, is woman’s whole existence.
Love, that is day and night — love, that is sun and moon and stars, Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, no other words but words of love, no other thought but love.
Love, how many roads to reach a kiss.
Love, even in its humblest beginnings, is a striking example of how little reality means to us.[L’amour, même en ses plus humbles commencements, est un exemple frappant du peu qu’est la réalité pour nous.]
Love, dear, is in my eyes the first principle of all the virtues, conformed to the divine likeness. Like all other first principles, it is not a matter of arithmetic; it is the Infinite in us.
Love, as I conceive it, is a purely subjective poem. In all that books tell us about it, there is nothing which is not at once false and true.
Love was something that comes suddenly, like a blinding flash of lightning—a heaven-sent storm hurled into life, uprooting it, sweeping every will before it like a leaf, engulfing all feelings.
Love was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, a treacherous illusion.
Love them that hate you, but to love those one hates is impossible.[Любите ненавидящих вас, а любить тех, кого ненавидишь, нельзя.]
