Quotes About Intimacy

But the fullness of life escapes us either way, whether we are holding on or pushing away, I realize now, at this late hour. For at the heart of love is openness. An unfettered openness of heart and spirit, it seems to me, is what intimacy—with another and with all life—really means. That openness is what I now believe true detachment to be.

have also learned that a goodbye is an opportunity for kindness, for forgiveness, for intimacy, and ultimately for love and a deepening acceptance of life as it is instead of what it was or what we may have wanted it to be.

But what can you do with another person's beauty? The satisfied lover is as little able to possess the beauty of his beloved as the one who hopelessly observes it from afar.

Two versions of the same face looking into blank screens, two very different minds thinking of things unsaid. Sometimes love is in silence.

I saw my face in your own. It was strange. I wanted to know you better.

Sometimes, I love to fight with you… Because, we end up loving each other more.

What love lays bare in me is energy.

I invoke the other's protection, the other's return: let the other appear, take me away, like a mother who comes looking for her child, from this worldly brilliance, from this social infatuation, let the other restore to me the religious intimacy, the gravity of the lover's world. (X once told me that love had protected him against worldliness: coteries, ambitions, advancements, interferences, alliances, secessions, roles, powers: love had made him into a social catastrophe, to his delight.)

The lover's discourse is usually a smooth envelope which encases the Image, a very gentle glove around the loved being.

A delirium, however, does not exist unless one wakens from it(there are only retrospective deliriums): one day, I realize what has happened to me: I thought I was suffering from not being loved, and yet it is because I thought I was loved that I was suffering; I lived in the complication of supposing myself simultaneously loved and abandoned. Anyone hearing my intimate language would have had to exclaim, as of a difficult child: But after all, what does he want?

The gift is contact, sensuality: you will be touching what I have touched, a third skin unites us.

Ce que cache mon langage, mon corps le dit» Roland Barthes (Fragments d'un discours amoureux)

I was looking at everything in the other's face, the other's body, coldly : lashes, toenail, thin eyebrows, thin lips, the luster of the eyes, a mole, a way of holding a cigarette; I was fascinated-fascination being, after all, only the extreme of detachment-by a kind of colored ceramicized, vitrified figurine in which I could read, without understanding anything about it, the cause of my desire. )

the amorous subject wonders, not whether he should declare his love to the loved being,..., but to what degree he should conceal the turbulences of his passion, his desires, his distresses: in short, his excesses.

Every contact, for the lover, raises the question of an answer: the skin is asked to reply.

El texto que usted escribe debe demostrarme que me desea. Esa prueba existe: es la escritura. La escritura es esto: la ciencia de los gozos del lenguaje, su kamasutra (de esta ciencia no hay más que un tratado: la escritura misma).

Love's atopia, characteristic which causes it to escape all dissertations, would be that *ultimately* it is possible to talk about love only *according to a strict allocutive determination*; whether philosophical, gnomic, lyric, or novelistic, there is always, in the discourse upon love, a person whom one addresses, though this person may have shifted to the condition of a phantom or a creature still to come. No one wants to speak of love unless it is *for* someone.).

Language is a skin : I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

The difficulty of the amorous project is in this: Just show me who to love then get out of my way! Countless episodes in which I fall in love with someone loved by my best friend: every rival has first been a master, a guide, a barker, a mediator.

What I want is a little cosmos (with its own time its own logic) inhabited only by the two of us

I love you is in my head; but I imprison it behind my lips. I do not divulge. I say silently to who is no longer or is not yet the other: *I keep myself from loving you*

Wie ein schlechter Konzertsaal ist auch der affektive Raum mit toten Winkeln durchsetzt, in die der Klang nicht mehr hineinreicht. Ist der vollkommene Gesprächspartner, der Freund, also nicht der, der in ihrem Umkreis die größtmögliche Resonanz schafft? Laßt sich Freundschaft nicht als ein Raum totaler Klangfülle beschreiben?

Its couplets included these lines: "Before no mortal ever knew / A love like mine so tender, true…No joy unmixed my bosom warms / But when my angel's in my arms.

In the late spring of 1777, Hamilton began the most intimate friendship of his life, with an elegant, blue-eyed young officer named John Laurens, who formally joined Washington's family in October.