Quote

I hate and I love. Perchance you ask why I do that. I know not, but I feel that I do and I am tortured. [Lat., Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.]

Catullus

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Catullus
Poet
Writer
Gaius Valerius Catullus
Hatred
Asks
Hate
Feel
Feels
Love
Perchance
Tortured

More quotes by Catullus

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Nothing is more silly than silly laughter.
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For the godly poet must be chaste himself, but there is no need for his verses to be so.
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To whom do I give my new elegant little book? Cui dono lepidum novum libellum?
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Away with you, water, destruction of wine!
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There is nothing more silly than a silly laugh.
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There is nothing more foolish than a foolish laugh. Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est
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I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask. I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.
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I can imagine no greater misfortune for a cultured people than to see in the hands of the rulers not only the civil, but also the religious power.
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What a woman says to an eager lover, write it on running water, write it on air.
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What woman says to fond lover should be written on air or the swift water. [Lat., Mulier cupido quod dicit amanti, In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.]
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It is difficult to suddenly give up a long love. Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem
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My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women, -or stop loving you, no matter what you do.
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Brother, hello and good-bye. Frater, ave atque vale
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It is difficult to lay aside a confirmed passion.
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Godlike the man who sits at her side, who watches and catches that laughter which (softly) tears me to tatters: nothing is left of me, each time I see her.
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My lady's sparrow is dead, the sparrow which was my lady's delight
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Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
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I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.
Catullus
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We see not our own backs.
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So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.
Catullus