Love (n.) must be dismantled before one becomes capable of loving.
Love (n.) is like the violence that compels thinking, whereas friendship asks only for a little goodwill.
Love (n.) is experience as experiment. Ecstasy is an accidental, unsought, unexpected experiment.
Love (n.) can be where one person's creative line is the other's imprisonment.
Love (n.) demands that the great lover — the magnetizer and catalyzer — first experience the profound wisdom of being an utter fool.
Love (n.) as I live it explores distance — a long journey affirming my hatred for the friend in another world, with another individual.
Love (n.) is that which we do so we can be jealous. Jealousy is finality, destination.
Love (n.) is an exercise in depersonalization, and only at its highest point can someone truly be named.
Love (n.) is itself a war machine with strange and terrifying powers — the battle-of-the-sexes metaphors appear only after love is done and sexuality dried up.
Love (n.) is a problem like life, death and sexual difference; it would be naive to think it amenable to scientific solution.
Love (n.) is always made with worlds: we love in our lover the power to close up or open onto more spacious worlds.
Love (n.) that is living and nonsubjective lets each party connect with unknown tracts in the other without entering or conquering them.
Love (n.) is an act, an 'experiment', that which one does in order to provoke a novel occurrence, to elicit a new event, to produce a new body.
Love (n.) does not lead back to the mother; the mother just holds a certain place relative to the virtual object in the series.
Love (n.) at its end returns the beloved to the indiscernible — Albertine, extracted from a group of girls, is given back to it.
Love (n.) when one knows how does not mean remaining a man or a woman but extracting from one's sex the n sexes that make up the girl of that sexuality.
Love (n.) is oriented toward its own limit and repeats its own ending, as Proust showed — so loves come in series, until the ultimate, where love gives way to the Work.
Love (n.) goes wrong when we push a process into a goal: the aim of a process is not its perpetuation but its completion.
Love (n.) for one who becomes the Pink Panther goes the way of the wasp and the orchid, the cat and the baboon — alliances between things that resemble nothing in each other.
Love (n.) in its force and despair is spoken of not by the neurotic on the couch but by the mute stroll of the schizo — Lenz's outing in the mountains under the stars.