The lover is moved by the thing loved, as the sense is by that which perceives, and it unites with it and they become one and the same thing... when the lover is united with the beloved it finds rest there; when the burden is laid down there it finds rest.
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For, verily, great love springs from great knowledge of the beloved object, and if you little know it, you will be able to love it only little or not at all.
If the thing loved is base, the lover becomes base.
The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead.
Oh yes, love is the way. Love is the only absolute. More and more I see this. I've seen too much hate to want to hate myself; hate is too great a burden to bear.
My waking thoughts are all of thee. Your portrait and the remembrance of last night's delirium have robbed my senses of repose. Sweet and incomparable Josephine, what an extraordinary influence you have over my heart. Are you vexed? Do I see you sad? Are you ill at ease? My soul is broken with grief, and there is no rest for your lover.
Love remains a secret even when spoken, for only a true lover truly knows that he is loved.
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