One can imagine the look the two lovers exchanged; it was like a flame, for virtuous lovers have not a shred of hypocrisy.
Honore De BalzacRead
Love is a religion, and its rituals cost more than those of other religions. It goes by quickly and, like a street urchin, it likes to mark its passage by a trail of devastation.
Interpretation
Love is intense and often comes with a cost, leaving a significant impact on those involved.
This quote by Honore De Balzac suggests that love, akin to a religion, is deeply felt and its practices can demand great sacrifices. It captures the fleeting nature of love and the emotional aftermath it can leave behind, highlighting both its beauty and its potential for heartbreak.
In practice
This quote could be shared during a discussion about the complexities of love in a relationship workshop.
One can imagine the look the two lovers exchanged; it was like a flame, for virtuous lovers have not a shred of hypocrisy.
Loyalty in time of need is possibly one of the noblest of victories a courtier can win over himself.
Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.
Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?
However gross a man may be, the minute he expresses a strong and genuine affection, some inner secretion alters his features, animates his gestures, and colors his voice. The stupidest man will often, under the stress of passion, achieve heights of eloquence, in thought if not in language, and seem to move in some luminous sphere. Goriot's voice and gesture had at this moment the power of communication that characterizes the great actor. Are not our finer feelings the poems of the human will?
Imaginative, sanguine men will never recognize that in negotiations the most dangerous moment of all is when everything is moving according to their wishes.
When we first meet what we love, we could become poets for our longing. When we are removed from what we love, we become singers of grief and weavers of elegant description.
β¦he glanced over his shoulder at her, regarding her, as he often did before they made love, as if she were a lost continent about to be rediscovered.
There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel.
Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow!
Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.
If a thing loves, it is infinite.
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