“Though I knew that this tangle consisting by turns of Mama and Jan or Matzerath and Mama – sighing, straining, then moaning in exhaustion, falling apart, trailing sticky threads – meant love, Oskar still couldn't believe that love was love, and moved by love sought other loves, yet always returned to that same tangle-love, hated that love till he'd practised that love himself and was forced to defend it in his own eyes as the only true and possible love.”
Book:The Tin Drum