Love

I love God. He's so deliciously evil.

Whenever someone asks me to define love, I usually think for a minute, then I spin around and pin the guy's arm behind his back. NOW who's asking the questions?

Love is a driver, bitter and fierce if you fight and resist him, Easy-going enough once you acknowledge his power.

Love has features which pierce all hearts,
he wears a bandage which conceals the
faults of those beloved. He has wings, he
comes quickly and flies away the same.

Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes,
Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

Love, free as air at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

A man reserves his true and deepest love not for
the species of woman in whose company he finds
himself electrified and enkindled, but for that one in
whose company he may feel tenderly drowsy.

We don't love qualities, we love persons;
sometimes by reason of their defects
as well as of their qualities.

This was love at first sight, love everlasting:
a feeling unknown, unhoped for, unexpected- in so
far as it could be a matter of conscious awareness;
it took entire possession of him, and he understood,
with joyous amazement, that this was for life.