June 1957: What is love? Not, as Shelley says in his essay ‘On Love’, the desire of the soul to see another that understands its feelings exactly – oh no, it is an anguish that would break the heart. It is thus with all things: we love a place when we often view it with a sensation of pain.

I think we love things because of their uniqueness, their fragility: the irreplaceableness of them if they are lost.