Borrowing my title from the immortal Miguel de Cervantes—not Lord Byron—and his indispensable, “Don Quixote de la Mancha,” I would like to examine this plague of admiration, yes, love. Never has such a feeling been so monumental in the development of our species, and conversely, never has such a force incurred the demise of many. From wrathful gods to harrying the depths of Tartarus; stolen concubines and assassinations, hath no human a reasonable position on this curse? The answer would be a decisive no, unless one was a psychopath, as love is an all-encumbering battlefield. Absence, disagreeing with Cervantes, is not a cure either. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” states the old proverbial cliché, but perhaps this is what Quixote meant, that a dying love may be cured by an absence. No matter one’s take on this variation of viewpoint, love is downright unavoidable.