The anger of lovers renews their love.

I once fell in love with a man only because we both belonged to that large and secret club of children who had crazy mothers. We traded stories of the shameless houses to which we could never invite our friends.

They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able and yet reserve an ability that they never perform, vowing more than the perfection of ten and discharging less than the tenth part of one.

The lover is a monotheist who knows that other people worship different gods but cannot himself imagine that there could be other gods.

An angry lover tells himself many lies.

Of all affliction taught a lover yet, Tis sure the hardest science to forget.

Like any lover, he desired to please; suffered agonies at the thought of failure, and brightened his dress with smart ties and handkerchiefs and other youthful touches.

All lovers unconsciously establish their own rules of the game, which from the outset admit of no transgression.

A lover without indiscretion is no lover at all.

Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness.

There is desire in those who love to hear about their loved ones' pains.

All mankind love a lover.

Lovers are commonly industrious to make themselves uneasy.

Everything disturbs an absent lover.

The face of a lover is an unknown, precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

The reason why lovers are never weary of one another is this: they are always talking of themselves.

When a love relationship is at its height there is no room left for any interest in the environment; a pair of lovers are sufficient to themselves.

For lovers, touch is metamorphosis. All the parts of their bodies seem to change, and seem to become something different and better.

Lovers know what they want, but not what they need.

The lover is made happier by his love than the object of his affection.