One can imagine the look the two lovers exchanged; it was like a flame, for virtuous lovers have not a shred of hypocrisy.
Honore De BalzacRead
Love is a religion, and its rituals cost more than those of other religions. It goes by quickly and, like a street urchin, it likes to mark its passage by a trail of devastation.
Interpretation
What this quote means
Love is intense and often comes with a cost, leaving a significant impact on those involved.
This quote by Honore De Balzac suggests that love, akin to a religion, is deeply felt and its practices can demand great sacrifices. It captures the fleeting nature of love and the emotional aftermath it can leave behind, highlighting both its beauty and its potential for heartbreak.
Themes
LoveSacrificeRelationshipEmotionDevastation
In practice
Example use cases
This quote could be shared during a discussion about the complexities of love in a relationship workshop.
More from Honore De Balzac
All quotes →Loyalty in time of need is possibly one of the noblest of victories a courtier can win over himself.
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Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.
Honore De BalzacRead
Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?
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However gross a man may be, the minute he expresses a strong and genuine affection, some inner secretion alters his features, animates his gestures, and colors his voice. The stupidest man will often, under the stress of passion, achieve heights of eloquence, in thought if not in language, and seem to move in some luminous sphere. Goriot's voice and gesture had at this moment the power of communication that characterizes the great actor. Are not our finer feelings the poems of the human will?
Honore De BalzacRead
Imaginative, sanguine men will never recognize that in negotiations the most dangerous moment of all is when everything is moving according to their wishes.
Honore De BalzacRead
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Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.
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She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn't as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.
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All that man has to say or do that can possibly concern mankind is in some shape or other to tell the story of his love-to sing, and, if he is fortunate and keeps alive, he will be forever in love.
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Maybe-- maybe love makes you suspicious and doubting. Is it true that when you love a woman you are never sure-- never sure of her because you aren't sure of yourself?
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