Eros aimed one of his arrows at Medea, and drove it into her heart, up to the feathers.

My love for you
was greater than my wisdom.

In love as in sport, the amateur status must be strictly maintained.

Love is a great spirit. Everything spiritual is in between god and mortal.

Eros is an issue of boundaries. He exists because certain boundaries do. In the interval between reach and grasp, between glance and counterglance, between ‘I love you’ and ‘I love you too,’ the absent presence of desire comes alive. But the boundaries of time and glance and I love you are only aftershocks of the main, inevitable boundary that creates Eros: the boundary of flesh and self between you and me. And it is only, suddenly, at the moment when I would dissolve that boundary, I realize I never can.

They say that nothing can stand against such a man, for the one gun – that marked Mutiny – deals instant death, but the other – the one marked Matelotage – deals instant love, like the very darts of Eros. And who, I ask ye, who can stand up to love?