Can you imagine, say for instance, if you yourself undertook the writing of a book with such an ambitious title?
The History of Love.
First guy: "So hey..... umm, what are you doing today?"
Second guy: "Not much. Just working on a book called The History of [frigging] LOVE!"
For one thing, there is no such thing as a history of love.
There are only many histories of loves.
And each "history" -- each story -- a unique, and inexplicable, one.
The relevance so internal, is what I mean.
Your love for another, for your loved one, your beloved -- only you yourself can know what it all means, if put into words.
Those words would be inadequate.
If at all meaningful to anyone outside of the relationship, terms would have to be generalized -- you would end up writing a philosophy of love, because anyone reading your work would not have truly experienced the unique thing you are describing. At best, they would know [or imagine] a vague approximation.
Nicole Krauss's  novel, The History of Love is a difficult book.
Read a few reviews. You will see. It is not for the faint-of-heart.
If you need a potboiler, don't go here. You're going to be waiting a long while to see any percolation, much less modest bubbles... never mind the lid rattling.
A few times I wanted to abandon the thing. It's difficult. Almost like a real love-relationship, there is nothing simple about it. But I have discovered tonight [having finished the book mere minutes ago] that, as with a healthy love-relationship, patient tenacity will be worthwhile.
Stay with this book to the end.
The pieces you don't think are fitting, will.
It's stopping in the middle that would be a mistake.
Like a painting that means little in the first ten minutes.
In the eleventh, it all hits you.
As with history, so with love.
To stop partway through is to miss the beginning.