He had whored the whole time and then, when that was over, and he had failed to kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written her, the first one, the one who left him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it …. How when he thought he saw her outside the Regence one time it made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would follow a woman who looked like  her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid  to see it was not  she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him.  How every one he had slept with had only made him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter since he knew he could not cure himself of loving her.

From “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” by Ernest Hemingway

The broken heart has been a favorite subject of literature and romantic songs.  Hemingway uses his masterful prose to express a misguided way some lovers handle the situation. One can perceive the sickness, the lovelornness, and the dispair experienced by the spurned lover.   There is a saying that states that a nail drives out another; that another love resolves the problem. But this is not always so. Some types of love are incurable. Are they unhealthy? Are they bad? Should those feelings be called love?