Love is a kind of dementia with very precise and oft-repeated clinical symptoms. You blush in each other's presence, you both hover in places where you expect the other to pass, you are both a little tongue-tied, you both laugh inexplicably and too long, you become quite nauseatingly girlish, and he becomes quite ridiculously gallant. You have also grown a little stupid.

History is the propaganda of the victors.

Love delayed is lust augmented.

...but then the general trouble with ignorance is always that the ignorant person has no idea that that's what they are. You can be ignorant and stupid and go through your whole life without ever encountering any evidence against the hypothesis that you're a genius.

Love itself is what is left over when being "in love" has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.

The garden where you sit Has never a need of flowers, For you are the blossoms And only a fool or the blind Would fail to know it

How strange that the world should change because of words, and words change because of the world