Aphorisms on Love


From Untitled, William Hamilton, 1751

by Yahia Lababidi

If love were not always a step ahead, how would it ensure we kept up the chase?

True love is the One we keep returning to.

We only ever love once, though there are a hundred versions of it.

Art is the love we make by ourselves, says the ego. Art is the love we make with an invisible other, replies the spirit.

If one’s first love is for letters, people tend to come second.

Certain cherished books are like old loves. We didn’t part on bad terms; but it’s complicated, and would require too much effort to resume relations.

The exile’s love is absolute – it pines for an Ideal.

The lover is strongest who desires least.

What we love in the next world, we begin by loving here first.

Pity atheists their pitilessness.  They are like persons hurt in love, who vow: never again!

In our inverted era, the love that dare not speak its name is divine.

Knowing ourselves is a basic courtesy to others, especially those we love.

We cannot faithfully love two – it’s either this world or the next.

Hate, too, is a species of love; perhaps our enemies are, after all, merely thwarted lovers.

It’s not enough to love an art; for it to count as a relationship, the art must love you back.

Lust is the love that consumes itself.

An exile’s love is never-ending, and we are all exiles.


About the Author:


Yahia Lababidi, an Egyptian-American thinker and poet, is the author of 6 books. His latest book is forthcoming from Press 53 Silver Concho Poetry Series.