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Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses.

Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

It is a vulgar error that love, a love, to woman is her whole existence; she is born for Truth and Love in their universal energy.

There's something that's sexy about a guy who has the strength to kill somebody, but is also vulnerable enough to be in love. It's just those two sides - like, I don't know why, but women for some reason aren't attracted to normal guys, like, guys who are in between.

The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.

The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.

The body of a beautiful woman is not made for love; it is too exquisite.