That [love] is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, [...]; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence. [...]. Love is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself; the most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise that his love will cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion, and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longer an individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality... [...] But I suppose that everyone’s conception of the passion is formed on his own idiosyncrasies, and it is different with every different person.
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