Love of another human being adds density, real heft, gristle, girth, to a human life, i.e., mine.
A life without love is only “rather nice.” A few pennies in a drawer, a thought before bed about washing.
The worst fate is not that of a loveless life, but it is the least beautiful and therefore the least lively. A loving life riptides, crackles, and we feel that even if we cannot say it.
Lovelessness fosters habits that fill up a life-cupboard: teatime twice a day, eagerness for the mailman, unstated satisfaction in hearing your knuckle pop.
I have been waiting for you and you have not arrived. This is what lovelessness feels like. Waiting for you, abiding, biding, refreshing a bookmarked webpage. Not deadening, deadness, just that sedentariness, that being at rest, you know it, an unused guest room that was once a playroom.
Grand Causes are no substitutes for love. Nor drugs or successes. Nor the piquancy of fame. Compared to love, these are mere whispers in the ever unbounded.
I know the most beauty there is. The fact that you are alive and you told a joke. Within earshot. Next time I’ll laugh. Doesn’t matter. I promise. Doesn’t matter.