“Most people see the problem of love primarily as that of being loved, rather than that of loving, of one’s capacity to love. Hence the problem to them is how to be loved, how to be lovable . . .
~ Erich Fromm from The Art of Loving (1956)
“If those whom we begin to love could know us as we were before meeting them … they could perceive what they have made of us.
When love ceases to be tragic it is something else and the individual again throws himself in search of tragedy.
Betrayal answers betrayal, the mask of love is answered by the disappearance of love.
For me, physical love has always been bound to an irresistible feeling of innocence and joy. Thus, I cannot love in tears but in exaltation.
The loss of love is the loss of all rights, even though one had them all.
Those who prefer their principles over their happiness, they refuse to be happy outside the conditions they seem to have attached to their happiness.
It is not humiliating to be unhappy. Physical suffering is sometimes humiliating, but the suffering of being cannot be, it is life.
The end of their passion consists of loving uselessly at the moment when it is pointless.
At times I feel myself overtaken by an immense tenderness for these people around me who live in the same century.
I have not stopped loving that which is sacred in this world.”
~ Albert Camus from Notebooks 1951–1959
“When this twentieth century of ours became obsessed with a passion for mere size, what was lost sight of was the ancient wisdom that the emotions have their own standards of judgment and their own sense of scale. In the emotional world a small thing can touch the heart and the imagination every bit as much as something impressively gigantic; a fine phrase is as good as an epic, and a small brook in the quiet of a wood can have its say with a voice more profound than the thunder of any cataract. Who would live happily in the country must be wisely prepared to take great pleasure in little things.
Country living is a pageant of Nature and the year; it can no more stay fixed than a movement in music, and as the seasons pass, they enrich life far more with little things than with great, with remembered moments rather than the slower hours. A gold and scarlet leaf floating solitary on the clear, black water of the morning rain barrel can catch the emotion of a whole season, and chimney smoke blowing across the winter moon can be a symbol of all that is mysterious in human life.”
~ Henry Beston