Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then
subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to
work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is
inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the
promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being ''in
love'' which any of us can convince ourselves we are.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and
this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it,
we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the
pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one
tree and not two.