Love is not a state, a feeling, a disposition, but an exchange, uneven, fraught with history, with ghosts, with longings that are more or less legible to those who try to see one another with their own faulty vision. ↗
The point is not that this world is too sad to love or too glad not to love; the point is that when you do love a thing, its gladness is a reason for loving it, and its sadness a reason for loving it more. ↗
How could a smile reduce me to such a mess? I was tempted to go to him and put my arms around him. Is it part of love for women to become weak and foolish? ↗