No one will ever know how many novels, poems, analyses, confessions, sufferings and joys have been piled up on this continent called Love, without it ever having turned out to be totally investigated.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
Of all the love stories ever published, I have - realistically - read very few.
Anthropologists have found evidence of romantic love in 170 societies. They've never found a society that did not have it.
Without the emotion of the beautiful, the sublime, the mysterious, there is no art, no religion, no literature.
In many joyfully-admired recent novels, love appears as little more than sex-manual instruction.
There's so many other things to write about than unrequited love.
I have been thinking about the notion of perfect love as being without fear, and what that means for us in a world that's becoming increasingly xenophobic, tortured by fundamentalism and nationalism.
Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the stars.
We must declare ourselves, become known; allow the world to discover this subterranean life of ours which connects kings and farm boys, artists and clerks. Let them see that the important thing is not the object of love, but the emotion itself.
The idea of love as a mysterious, undiscovered world has come to have no place in our innermost imagination.
There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel.