Hate (n.) is love that has become its opposite — love still burning, but with the flame of hate; only when the love burns out does the hate go out.
Hate (n.) can be love's last expression: true love may be looked upon as hate by the beloved, because he will not understand that to be loved is to be helped toward God.
Hate (n.) finds the world almost too small to hold both, shudders that eternity must hold them both — yet like two balls that collide and one carries the other off, hater and lover are still “on the way together.”
Hate (n.) puts you in another's power as surely as love or fear: Elvira loves Don Juan, Anna hates him, Zerlina fears him — all are in his power.
Hate (n.) when unseen is the one weapon against which all Don Juan's seductiveness is unavailing — not even if the Mother of God offered to be bridesmaid.
Hate (n.) still lives on the lover's bounty: what feeds the hate, except the love?
Hate (n.) would brave its way into eternity, powerless as it is, but time eats it up along with earthly affection.
Hate (n.) becomes a duty toward one's own in Luke's hard saying, which Kierkegaard upholds without softening.