There can be no piece of mind in love, since the advantage one has secured is never anything but a fresh starting-point for future desires.

I loved her [Gilberte]; I was sorry not to have had the time and the inspiration to insult her, to hurt her, to force her to keep some memory of me. I thought her so beautiful that I should have liked to be able to retrace my steps so as to shake my fist at her and shout, "I think you're hideous, grotesque; how I loathe you!"_

Like everybody who is not in love, he thought one chose the person to be loved after endless deliberations and on the basis of particular qualities or advantages.

Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.

Love is a reciprocal torture.

Jean's desires, like those of all men in love, were concentrated on the impossible.