One knows something only if one loves it–or, as Elsa [Morante] would say, 'only one who loves knows'. The Indo-European root that mean 'to know' is a homonym for the one that means 'to be born'. To know [conoscere] means to be born [nascere] together, to be generated or regenerated by the thing known. This, and nothing but this, is the meaning of loving. And yet, it is precisely this type of love that is so difficult to find among those who believe they know. In fact, the opposite often occurs–that those who dedicate themselves to the study of a writer or an object end up developing a feeling of superiority towards them, even a sort of contempt. This is why it is best to expunge from the verb 'to know' all merely cognitive claims (cognitio in Latin is originally a legal term meaning the procedures for a judge’s inquiry). For my own part, I do not think we can pick up a book we love without feeling our heart racing, or truly know a creature or thing without being reborn in them and with them.
from Self-Portrait in the Studio by Giorgio Agamben, translated by Kevin Attell.