He was in love—he cried it passionately to himself. The things that a week before would have seemed insuperable obstacles, his limited income, his desire to be irresponsible and independent, had in this forty hours become the merest chaff before the wind of his infatuation. If he did not marry her his life would be a feeble parody on his own adolescence. To be able to face people and to endure the constant reminder of Gloria that all existence had become, it was necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope desperately and tenaciously out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be sure, a hope that was cracked and dissipated a dozen times a day, a hope mothered by mockery, but, nevertheless, a hope that would be brawn and sinew to his self-respect.

From “The Beautiful and Damned” by Francis Scott Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald knows the way the human mind works.  We crave for love. We create our own object of love, make out our ties with that particular person, and come up with reasons why our feelings should be requited.   “So he built hope desperately and tenaciously out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be sure …” Love is illogical, irrational, and incomprehensible. It is a lucky accident of nature.