But that afternoon he asked himself, with his infinite capacity for illusion, if such pitiless indifference might not be a subterfuge for hiding the torments of love.
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope...I have loved none but you.
We're always looking at this love through the eyes of the person who is suffering because of this love.
Love is both a principle and an emotion; it is something both felt and willed. It is capable of almost infinite degrees. Love in the human heart may begin so modestly as to be hardly perceptible and go on to become a raging torrent that sweeps its possessor before it in total helplessness.
Love is so holy, so confusing. It makes a man anxious, tormented. Love, how can I define it?
Would love be so different with someone else? Was love even possible with someone else? Love was supposed to be easy, wasn't it? Then why did she feel so tormented?
Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest: Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers: Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest, And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!
I don't write about anything I don't love even if that love sometimes gets all screwed up and tormented.
