He knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it must cease one day or another. He looked forward to that day with eager longing. Love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his life’s blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that he could take pleasure in nothing else. — W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage. (Signet; Anniversary ed. edition January 2, 2007) Originally published 1915.