Without love, our earth is a tomb

Veils of love which was only hate petrified by longing — that was me.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

When we lose someone we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough.

To die for lack of love is horrible. The asphyxia of the soul.

I freeze and burn, love is bitter and sweet, my sighs are tempests and my tears are floods, I am in ecstasy and agony, I am possessed by memories of her and I am in exile from myself.

Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow,
And tuned my heart to elegies of woe.
I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne!
...
No more my soul a charm in music finds;
Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft scenes of solitude no more can please;
Love enters there, and I ‘m my own disease.

Love is something so ugly that the human race would die out if lovers could see what they were doing

And occasionally I became very sad over that happiness, because I was well aware it couldn’t last. I wasn’t meant to exist in the lap of plenty and ease; I needed torment and persecution. I felt that some day I would awaken from those beautiful images of love and once be alone, in the cold world of the others, where there was only solitude or struggle for me, not peace or participation.

Much has been written of love turning to hatred, of the heart growing cold with the death of love. It is a remarkable process. It is far more terrible than anything I have ever read about it, more terrible than anything I will ever be able to say.

Love lives on hope, and dies when hope is dead;
It is a flame which sinks for lack of fuel.

If you ever allow yourself to see it will be the death of you. And that is why love is so terrifying, for to love is to see and to see is to die. But it is the most delightful exhilarating experience in the whole world. For in the death of the ego is freedom, peace, serenity, joy.

The tragedy of love is not death or separation. How long do you think it would have been before one or other of them ceased to care? Oh, it is dreadfully bitter to look at a woman whom you have loved with all your heart and soul, so that you felt you could not bear to let her out of your sight, and realize that you would not mind if you never saw her again. The tragedy of love is indifference.

Who knew love could kill you?