Milan Kundera Quotes

Love is like a flower, even the most beautiful kind dies.

Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.

True love, especially first love, can be so tumultuous and passionate that it feels like a violent journey.

True love makes the thought of death frequent, easy, without terrors; it merely becomes the standard of comparison, the price one would pay for many things.

I always believed 'The Fly' to be a classic opera story. It's a tale of love and death, true love surviving in the face of physical decay and ultimate sacrifice.

It has ever been since time began, and ever will be, till time lose breath, that love is a mood - no more - to man, and love to a woman is life or death.

Love is so much more deadly than I had thought, love is so much inherent as the very lack, and we are guaranteed by a need to be renewed continuously. Love is now, is forever. There is just the blow of grace - call it passion.

There is no rapture in the love which is prompted by esteem; such affection is lasting, not passionate.

It's too late to fall in love with Sharon Tate / But it's too soon to ask me for the words I want carved on my tomb.

As the presence of those we love is as a double life, so absence, in its anxious longing and sense of vacancy, is as a foretaste of death.

Great loves were almost always great tragedies. Perhaps it was because love was never truly great until the element of sacrifice entered into it.

Love is thick and it swallows me whole.

Love is every bit as violent and dangerous as murder.

Love is . . . a madness most discreet

Love is transient even on a very personal level. We lose everyone that we love. Sometimes we drift apart and sometimes we die.

At the end of true love is death, and only the love that ends in death is love.

Love is like death. It is fulfillment and an evening after which nothing more may follow.

Oh, my God. It hit me like a tsunami then: how perfect he was for me, how he was everything I could possibly hope for, as a friend, boyfriend - maybe even more. He was it for me. There would be no more looking. I really, really loved him, with a whole new kind of love I'd never felt before, something that made every other kind of love I'd ever felt just seem washed out and wimpy in comparison. I loved him with every cell in my body, every thought in my head, every feather in my wings, every breath in my lungs. And air sacs.

Love is the scent of a sleeping back, death a slight draft of bad breath.

I had never given much thought to how I would die, but dying in the place of someone I love doesn't seem like such a bad way to go.

Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.

Love removes the world for you, and just as surely when it's going well as when it's going badly.

When a woman's heart is flowing over for the first time with deep and passionate love, she is all love. Every faculty of her soul rushes together in the intensity of the one feeling; thought, reflection, conscience, duty, the past, the future, they are names to her light as the breath which speaks them; her soul is full.