We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for

“We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.” – Cyril Connolly

So spoke Cyril Connolly, the English critic and philosopher of the heart, whose words reveal a truth that pierces through time: that love, in its purest and most complete form, visits us only once in life. Not because the heart cannot love again, but because only once are we perfectly equipped — wholly innocent, wholly unguarded, wholly aflame with the belief that love can conquer all. The first great love is the soul’s awakening — the moment when heart, mind, and spirit align in harmony before the world’s disappointments begin to dull their music. It is the one time we love not out of habit or memory, but out of pure discovery.

When Connolly says, “We love but once,” he does not deny the possibility of many affections, but points to a deeper truth: that the first time the heart truly opens, it does so without armor. Before betrayal, before fear, before experience teaches caution, love bursts forth like spring — fearless and full. It is not merely romantic love he speaks of, but the first perfect act of loving, when the soul gives itself entirely without reserve. After that, love may return — wiser, deeper, perhaps even nobler — but never as innocent. The river still flows, but it no longer believes it is the sea.

The origin of Connolly’s thought lies in the tension between innocence and experience, a theme that echoes through all of literature and life. As a writer who pondered art, passion, and human weakness, he saw that time and suffering refine us, but also wound us. Youth, he believed, loves absolutely — with the full trust of the heart. But as life goes on, we begin to measure, to guard, to doubt. We still love, yes, but part of us stands watching. Thus, the perfection of love belongs to the first time, not because later loves are lesser, but because we ourselves are less whole in giving.

The poets of the ancients would understand this truth well. Dante Alighieri, who immortalized Beatrice, loved her but once — and through that love, glimpsed eternity. He met her briefly, yet her image became his compass, guiding his art and his soul. His love was not consummated, yet it was complete — untouched by decay, untouched by time. It was love in its highest form: not desire seeking possession, but reverence seeking beauty. Dante’s heart, once awakened, could never love in the same way again, for the first awakening of the soul cannot be repeated.

There is a strange sanctity in this — that the first love, even if lost, remains eternal. Many who have loved deeply know this ache: the memory of the time when they were fully open, before caution crept in. Later loves may bring peace, companionship, or even joy, but the first love holds a sacred pain — a reminder of what it means to give oneself entirely. This is not to mourn, but to honor. For even if it ends, that first complete love leaves within us a knowledge that shapes every other affection. We become wiser, but we also understand what it means to be truly alive.

Yet Connolly’s words are not meant to make us despair, but to awaken gratitude. If we love but once perfectly, let that once be enough. For in that love we have touched something eternal. The lesson is not that later loves are false, but that they are different — born of understanding rather than innocence, of choice rather than surrender. Each has its own beauty, but the first carries the rare fragrance of untouched purity — the time when the heart still believed itself limitless.

So, my listener, cherish that love — whether it lives in your memory or your present life. Guard it not as a wound, but as a flame. Let it remind you that to love fully is to live beyond fear, beyond calculation. And if you find yourself loving again, do so not with cynicism, but with reverence for the courage you once had. For to love at all is sacred, but to have loved once perfectly — even for a fleeting moment — is to have known the divine within the human heart.