Quotes About Attachment

As much as you own an old house and garden, it owns you. There's a continuum in progress.

Southerners have a gene, as yet undetected in the DNA spirals, that causes them to believe that place is fate. Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with it. Never casual, the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.

All the things that girls feel they are not when they fear that if they become, if they are, they will no longer be loved by the sisters whose hearts they have not meant to break. And besides, if the sisters are gone and only the beloved remains with his dense curls and his lips, how safe are you then? You have to have him or you will die if the sisters are gone with their listening ears and their feet to rub and their bodies to dress and their shared loneliness.

He loved her in a way he'd never come close to loving anything before.

Everyone to whom she drew close left her. Sooner or later they walked away.

Falling in love meant you lost control of your emotions and your will and your life. It meant you lost yourself.

Books can be bought. A house can be rebuilt, darlin. You can't be replaced.

Fannie Mae had aroused his anger, then reduced his anger to verbal breast-beating, and finally to silent hurt. Still, the love remained. Why?

And then he remembered Hawat's words: Parting with people is a sadness; a place is only a place.

he really cared for Fannie Mae! He admired her . . . and she could hurt him because he admired her and felt . . . felt this way.

If you think you own something, that's like walking on quicksand.

I remember no moment when I awakened and said: I love him! No, it had wormed its way into this deeper and deeper addiction until, accomplished fact, it must be accepted in every living moment. Like breathing…or heartbeats.

they were non-thinkers, attaching themselves to any fancied power for the identity which this gave them. Without a reflection from her they were empty. Thus, they were dangerous.

Parting with people is a sadness; a place is only a place.

Yours (now I'm even losing my name - it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)

Adev?ratul motiv al temerilor mele – nu exist? ceva mai cumplit de spus ?i nici de auzit – este c? nu te voi putea poseda niciodat?.

However, even this would not have helped me had I not remembered that I was loved by a girl with a black velvet ribbon around her neck, if not passionately, at least faithfully.

Yes, the wardrobe. It will probably be the object of our first and last fight. I'll say: 'Let's throw it out.' You'll say: 'It must stay.' I'll say: 'Choose between it and me.' You'll say: 'At once. Frank and Schrank, they rhyme. I choose the wardrobe.' 'Good,' I'll say, and slowly descend the stairs (which?) and - if I haven't found the Danube canal, I'll still be alive today.

Seni seviyorum iÅŸte, budala, deniz dibindeki çak?l ta?? nas?l sevilip, sarmalan?p ona baÄŸlan?l?rsa ben de sana öyle baÄŸl?y?m.

En kötüsü de sahip olamad???n ÅŸeylere ait olmand?r

It would otherwise be difficult to imagine what could have induced Frieda to give up her post, she was just sitting there in the taproom like a spider in its web, had threads everywhere that only she knew of; stealing her away against her will would have been absolutely impossible; only love for an inferior, something in other words that was incompatible with her position, could drive her from her post.

it's only love which can't be helped

You won't escape me. I like you more and more. You're a lucky catch. I congratulate myself.

I wouldn't have a thing, not even my name, since I've given that to you as well.