Quotes About Intimacy

Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we'll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I'll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won't stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.

They all dreamt of each other that night, as was natural, considering how thin the partitions were between them, and how strangely they had been lifted off the earth to sit next each other in mid-ocean, and see every detail of each others' faces, and hear whatever they chanced to say.

I know what loves are trembling into fire; how jealousy shoots its green flashes hither and thither; how intricately love crosses love; love makes knots; love brutally tears them apart. I have been knotted; I have been torn apart.

I need someone whose mind falls like a chopper on a block; to whom the pitch of absurdity is sublime, and a shoestring adorable. To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?

What I value is the naked contact of a mind.

In fact, though their acquaintance had been so short, they had guessed, as always happens between lovers, everything of any importance about each other in two seconds at the utmost, and it now remained only to fill in such unimportant details as what they were called; where they lived; and whether they were beggars or people of substance.

When two people have been married for years they seem to become unconscious of each other's bodily presence so that they move as if alone, speak aloud things which they do not expect to be answered, and in general seem to experience all the comfort of solitude without its loneliness.

It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.

No decent man ought to read Shakespeare's sonnets because it was like listening at keyholes.

Anyhow, she thought, they are aware of each other; they live in each other; what else is love, she asked, listening to their laughter.

For in marriage a little licence,a little independence there must be between people living together day in and day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she him.

But he could not tell her he loved her. He held her hand. Happiness is this, he thought.

Could loving, as people called it, make her and Mrs. Ramsay one? for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on Mrs. Ramsay's knee.

I dance. I ripple. I am thrown over you like a net of light. I lie quivering flung over you.

To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?

I put my bare hand on her bare hand and felt, "This is genuine. There can be no mistake about this.

For it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on Mrs. Ramsey's knee.

Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.

Milly Brush once might almost have fallen in love with these silences.

I will come,' said Peter, but he sat on for a moment. What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.

They never saw him drawing pictures of them naked at their antics in his notebook.

Our hands touch, our bodies burst into fire. The chair, the cup, the table-nothing remains unlit. All quivers, all kindles, all burns clear.

She didn't know their names, but friends she knew they were, friends without names, songs without words, always the best.

But with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into.