Objects are easy to love because you’re really just in love with them. They’re receptacles of passionate feeling, and whatever sacrifices you may make for them are only of the masturbatory sort. You’re sacrificing for your own pleasure, which somehow manage to be some of the most satisfying pleasures.
Love of a human being, true love, is love of a thing irreplaceable. You can enjoy a replaceable person, but not love them. Love is a unique thing. The object is no longer just a non-self, but an equal to your self.
As rare a thing as exists on this earth, or, for that matter, any other.