Love (n.) is a cruel goddess who wants the whole man, body as well as soul; her worship is suffering and its peak is suicide.
Love (n.) is a passion, and nothing is more dangerous to the tranquillity of knowledge than passion — so the philosopher must dispose of it first.
Love (n.) is what first teaches a man to believe in the world outside himself: it makes man into an object, and even the object into a man.
Love (n.) is an un-Critical, un-Christian materialist: it does not stay immured in the brain but wants a beloved who is sensuously there.
Love (n.) is selfish, says the critic, because it looks for its own essence in another — and the critic, needing no one, finds the whole of human essence exhausted in himself.
Love (n.) is the maid from a foreign land with no dialectical passport, so the Critical police expel her: no one can deduce in advance where she came from or where she goes.
Love (n.) stripped of nerve currents and hot blood leaves only a corpse whose soul can converse undisturbed about 'true love' and 'pure morals'.
Love (n.) has its greatest charm in the forbidden fruit: take away the fears, the dangers and the secrecy and almost nothing is left — 'if I married my mistress, where would I spend my evenings?'
Love (n.) is only loving yourself in the objects you love: man can have affection only for himself in other beings of his kind.