Love (n.) is a privilege which two beings confer upon one another, whereby they may mutually cause one another much sorrow over absolutely nothing.
Love (n.) is a sort of personal religion... we respect another life within ourselves.
Love (n.) is kindled anew for even the most depraved when he sees himself threatened by a rival.
Love (n.) is like the devil... he whom it has in its clutches it surrounds with flames.
Love (n.) is not only a feeling, it is also an art. A simple word, a sensitive precaution, a mere nothing reveals to a woman the sublime artist who can touch her heart without withering it.
Love (n.) is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.
Love (n.) is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.
Love (n.) has the virtue of making a man pretty indifferent to anything else.
Love (n.) is self-reflective. Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.
Love (n.) is recursive. We love because we love.
Love (n.) is biased and unjust. When women love us, they forgive us everything, even our crimes... when they do not love us, they give us credit for nothing, not even our virtues.
Love (n.) is the most melodious of all harmonies.
Love (n.) is the only passion which suffers neither past nor future.
Love (n.) is the only way on which even the dim-witted reaches certain heights.
Love (n.) is the poetry of the senses.
Love (n.) is the reduction of the universe to the single being, and the expansion of a single being, even to God.
Love (n.) is precisely to the moral nature what the sun is to the earth.