The face of a lover is an unknown, precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.
Love is invisible and comes and goes where it wants, without anyone asking about it.
I didn't understand, either, but love had no sense sometimes. Pondering the why of it was futile.
I'm not saying I know everything about love. I'm still trying to figure out girls... I don't think we'll ever totally figure out girls.
The difference between the love of a man and the love of a woman is that a man will always give reasons for loving, but a woman gives no reasons for loving.
If you know why you fall in love, you aren't in love
Summary riposte To the dreary wail There's no knowing what Love is all about. Poets know a lot.
We can't save the past or solve the riddle of love. But to me, it's worth trying.
Love is the veil between lover and lover.
Man can try to name love, showering upon it all the names at his command, and still he will involve himself in endless self deceptions. If he possesses a grain of wisdom he will lay down his arms and name the unknown by the more unknown - ignotum per ignotius - that is by the name of God.
Love has reasons which reason cannot understand.
The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.
The absolute yearning of one human body for another particular body and its indifference to substitutes is one of life's major mysteries.
Women only love those that they don’t know.
It's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth, and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world. It's a mystery we can give no account of.
In so many millennia, the humans never did figurs love out. How much is physical, how much in the mind? How much accident and how much fate? Why did perfect matches crumble and impossible couples thrive? I dont know the answer better than they did. Love simply is where it is.
Where did the love come from? What was it made of?
Love is not a product of reasonings and statistics. It just comes-none knows whence-and cannot explain itself.
There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which was large certainly but as real as grass, as natural and unaccountable as bloom and branch and their growth.
Love is a sacred mystery. To those who love, it remains forever wordless; But to those who do not love, it may be but a heartless jest.
