We'd hoped vaguely to fall in love but hadn't worried much about it, because we'd thought we had all the time in the world. Love had seemed so final and so dull — love was what ruined our parents. Love had delivered them to a life of mortgage payments and household repairs; to unglamorous jobs and the flourescent aisles of a supermarket at two in the afternoon. We'd hoped for love of a different kind, love that knew and forgave our human frailty but did not miniaturize our grander ideas of ourselves. It sounded possible. If we didn't rush or grab, if we didn't panic, a love both challenging and nurturing might appear. If the person was imaginable, then the person could exist.

Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without being tired.

Love is not a finite emotion.
We don’t have only so much to share.
Our hearts create love as we need it.

Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired.

Love was so unlike the article served up in books: the joy, though genuine, was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery.

Her love for him not militate against her love for other people, did not force itself
upon him when he did not invite it, did not belittle or destroy him,
even by mendacious praise. When he was dying she was there to
help him. This strange distant love-affair is only one example of how
many forms love might take if we had the foresight and the imagination
to rescue it from the stereotypes of our dying consumer culture.

What was it that made this human love so much more desirable to me than the love of my own kind? Was it because it was exclusive and capricious? The souls offered love and acceptance to all. Did I crave a greater challenge? This love was tricky; it had no hard-and-fast rules — it might be given for free, as with Jamie, or earned through time and hard work, as with Ian, or completely and heartbreakingly unattainable, as with Jared. Or was it simply better somehow? Because these humans could hate with so much fury, was the other end of the spectrum that they could love with more heart and zeal and fire?

Our love would be solace, companionship, and the mending of wounds.

What else is love but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives acts and experiences otherwise than we do?

Love is so attractive that even the pain of unwanted endings will eventually yield to the possibility that we may find the right connection with someone who is also ready for the type of love that goes deeper than the surface level — a love that welcomes growth and vulnerability. Even when it feels incredibly difficult to open up our hearts to such a sensitive depth, we still take the leap forward when our intuition makes it clear that we should try again.

Love may, indeed, love the beloved when her beauty is lost: but not because it is lost. Love may forgive all infirmities and love still in spite of them: but Love cannot cease to will their removal. Love is more sensitive than hatred itself to every blemish in the beloved… Of all powers he forgives most, but he condones least: he is pleased with little, but demands all.

Love is fragile. And we're not always its best caretakers. We just muddle through and do the best we can. And hope this fragile thing survives against all odds.

Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.

We come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.