Quotes About Attachment

How many men can say, as I must, 'I am a man whose only friend is the King of England'? I have everything, you would think. And yet take Henry away, and I have nothing.

Would they quarrel so much, if they were indifferent?

Every possession is a loss

Why are we so attached to the severities of the past?Why are we so proud of ourselves for having endured our fathers and our mothers, the fireless days and the meatless days, the cold winters and the sharp tongues? It's not as if we had a choice.

But what's the point? he thinks. She would die and leave me. Or I would die and leave her. It's not worth it. Nobody's worth it.

He feels someone has attached a weight to his heart. Not a big weight: just a small leaden bob, so he feels the drag.

Bee had been the glue that held them all together, then he was the Velcro. Not as secure, maybe, but there would be an awful tearing sound if he pulled away.

Part of our shared tragedy - we recognized it at once - was that we never separated from our mothers, which meant we liked girls more than the world like them, which is to say more than they liked each other, let alone themselves.

Care too little, you lose them. Care too much, you get hurt

Above anyone else, I hold a grudge against the world. But.. but even more than that, I have begun to love this man. — Anna Kyoyama

I had always regarded Manhattan the way an orphan might think of the mother who had laid him on the doorstep of a mosque: it meant nothing to me but also everything.

And I remember this man who never ran out of poems telling me once that 'knowing a book by heart is like carrying a house inside your chest.

knowing a book by heart is like carrying a house inside your chest.

I wanted to wear her as you would a piece of clothing, to fold into her ribs, be a stone in her mouth.

He loved me and I would rather have him become one with me than disappear from my life. Then I'd never have to be away from him ever again. He said I was important to him. So why did he leave me? How could he leave me?

Tanken är en syra som fräter. Du tänker i början, att den blott skall fräta på det som är murket och sjukt och som skall bort. Men tanken tänker inte så: den fräter blint. Den börjar med det rov som du helst och gladast kastar åt honom, men du skall inte tro att det mättar honom. Han slutar inte förrän han gnagt sönder det sista du har kärt.

And the single last thing in my head: that I like him better than I've ever liked anyone and that of all the things he's ever done to me, making me like him so much is by far the worst.

That boy is your weakness.

whatever you love, that is your weakness

Mine . The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

I hate that he knows what he's doing and I don't. I hate being vulnerable. I hate that I throw my head back, baring my throat. I hate the way I cling to him, the nails of one hand digging into his back, my thoughts splintering, and the single last thing in my head: that I like him better than I've ever liked anyone and that of all the things he's ever done to me, making me like him so much is by far the worst.

Some people are ridiculous, especially when it comes to love.

There are dog people and cat people.

I guarded it so well that I could behave as though I didn't have one at all. Even now, it is a shabby, worm-eaten, and scabrous thing. But it is yours.