To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.
I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.