“But sometimes it’s the wolf that falls into the jaws of the lamb. The wolf, out of love, falls backwards into the circle of fire. [...] What ties this wolf to this lamb, she figures, is the fact that it hasn’t eaten it. Painful mystery of the gift that returns through reflection: what the wolf loves in the lamb is its own goodness. It’s thanks to the lamb that the wolf accedes to the plane of love — the love that gives of itself without hope, without calculation, without response, but that nevertheless gives of itself, seeing itself give of itself. [...] But thereafter — thereafter there is the aftermath. Now the wolf can no longer break away from the lamb, for the lamb retains, for better or worse, traces of the gift. That which is given in love can never be taken back. It is me my entire self that I give with the gift of love. This is why the wolf can’t stop loving the lamb, the chosen one. Repository of the wolf. All of the wolf. That’s how love can ruin the lover. [...] The lamb loves its wolf. The wolf turns all white and starts quivering out of love for the lamb. The lamb loves the wolf's fragility, and the wolf loves the frail one's force. The wolf is now the lamb's lamb and the lamb has tamed the wolf.”

— Hélène Cixous tr. Keith Cohen, in “Love of the Wolf” from Stigmata.

There is no love except where there is fear. Love run by fear, escorted by fear. We love the wolf. We love the love of the wolf. We love the fear of the wolf. We're afraid of the wolf: there is love in our fear. Fear is in love with the wolf. Fear loves. Or rather: we are afraid of the person we love. Love terrorizes us. Or else the person we love we call our wolf or our tiger, or our lamb in the manger. We are full of trembling and ready to wolf down.

— Hélène Cixous tr. Keith Cohen, in "Love of the Wolf" from Stigmata.