Love (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠can love only the extraordinary is accused, not praised: if loving the extraordinary were love's merit, God would be embarrassed, for the extraordinary does not exist for Him.

Love (n.) fights ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not against the enemy with the help of the good, but for the enemy — and against oneself.

Love (n.) is, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in Christianity, not a relation between man and man but between man — God — man: God is the middle term.

Love (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not something found outside oneself but brought along: whoever finds no one worthy of love proves only that he lacks love.

A Neighbor (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the watermark on every sheet: write different things on each page, hold each to the light, and the same mark shows through — visible only in the light of the eternal.

A Neighbor (n.) at ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a distance is a figment of imagination, a shadow passing through every man's thought — while the man who really passed by at that moment went unrecognized.

A Neighbor (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the first person you meet when you open the door you closed to pray — no travelling round the world in vain, as one must for a beloved or a friend.

A Neighbor (n.) need ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not even exist: a man on a desert island, renouncing self-love in his mind, could be said to love his neighbor.

God (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not admire any man.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠infinitely more dangerous to approach than a king: the world cannot take everything because it cannot give everything; only God takes everything — in order to give everything.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠mild as gravity is, letting the star float lightly in its orbit; leave the orbit, become too light, and lightness turns heaviness — so God's wish to save the world is the greatest severity to one who refuses salvation.

God (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the slightest understanding of money.

Christianity (n.) answers ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠by swinging away from the question to fix the questioner to a task: Socrates snared men in their ignorance by asking; Christ snared them in obligation by answering.

Christianity (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠pushed earthly love and friendship from the throne — and its defenders who say it “also recommends” them talk like a shopkeeper pushing a second-best grade as almost as good.

Christianity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a fairy tale, though its promised happiness outshines any fairy tale — nor a chimera requiring only an idle head and an empty brain.

Christianity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a eulogy of the righteous — if it were, it would have no one to speak to and no one to speak about; it begins at once with what every man must become.

Eternity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a festal hall walled with mirrors that leaves dishonor not the smallest crevice to hide in.

Eternity (n.) will ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠surprise us twice: missing some we were sure to find there, and finding there some we excluded — better than ourselves, and in the very thing for which we excluded them.

Eternity (n.) never ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠asks what a man can do; it calmly assumes every man can achieve the highest, and asks only whether he did.

Eternity (n.) counted ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠on to reveal at last whether someone really was a deceiver proves only that one is not the true lover, who has love's eternal happiness already in himself.

Forgiveness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠faith turned around: as faith believes the invisible in the visible, the lover through forgiveness believes the visible away.

Forgiveness (n.) puts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the sin behind one's back — not hidden from the eyes, which means never seen, but behind the back, which means seen; turned lovingly toward the forgiven, one cannot see what lies behind.

Forgiveness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠forgivingness: the forgiveness you grant is the forgiveness you get — no closer agreement exists between the sky and its image in the sea, exactly as deep as it is high.

Forgiveness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠rare because faith in its power is rare — "I'd gladly forgive him, but I don't see what good it does." No, it is not seen!

Deception (n.) works ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠two ways: you can be deceived by believing the false, but also by not believing the true.

Deception (n.) practised ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠on the true lover is like calling it theft to put money into a man's pocket.

Deception (n.) takes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no time — one can be deceived instantly and stay so for years; it takes time to notice.

A Deception (n.) who ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠cunningly wins the true lover's love has wasted his art: the true lover loves everyone, so he could have had that love far more simply.

Love thy neighbor (n.) picks ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the lock of self-love with 'as thyself' — two little words that leave selfishness no loophole, gripping it tighter than any wrestler.

Love thy neighbor (n.) seems ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠too belittling for the distinguished and too presumptuous for the humble.

Love thy neighbor (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a cast-off earthly love but the last and highest love, which must be placed even before the lovers' first and highest moment.

Love thy neighbor (n.) could ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠become “Love your neighbor as you love your sweetheart” when commanded to a man truly in love.

Despair (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠living without possibility — making an end where there is no end, like one writing to dictation who puts a full stop before the sentence is finished or throws away the pen.

Despair (n.) over ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠another man is to be oneself in despair — and those most complacently sure of themselves are quickest to despair of others.

Despair (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not losing the beloved — that is misfortune, pain, suffering — but lacking the eternal.

Despair (n.) comes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only to one who is desperate: unhappiness does not make immediate love despair, it reveals that even in happiness it was desperate.

A Lover (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠pack his whole life into a dash: “I labored early and late — and accomplished a dash; I suffered as only love suffers — and gained a dash; I proclaimed the truth — and who appropriated it? A dash!”

A Lover (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠willing to do everything and fears only one thing: that by doing everything he might get out of debt.

The Lover (n.) who ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠has built up love in another has nothing to point at: when the building stands, he stands aside abashed and says, “I have always presupposed this.”

The Lover (n.) who ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠believes everything knows, in a sense, when he is deceived — and by not wishing to believe it, stays in love and is not deceived: proof that knowing is not higher than believing.