Quotes About Intimacy

That I wanted more. That night I dreamed of kissing her again and wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.

A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow.

Never offer your heart to someone who eats hearts who finds heartmeat delicious but not rare who sucks the juices drop by drop and bloody-chinned grins like a God.

She thought of how precious it was to be able to know another person over many years. There was incomparable richness in it.

I love his dear eyes in which the vulnerability and beauty of his soul can be plainly read.

If you was my wife, she say, I'd cover you up with kisses stead of licks, and work hard for you too.

And when they spy on us let them discover us loving

What is a promise if not your hand in mine?

Life is very different when you have a good friend. I've seen people without special friends, close friends. Other men, especially. For some reason men don't often make and keep friends. This is a real tragedy, I think, because in a way, without a tight male friend, you never really are able to see yourself.

Only the sky above us do we hold in common. I look at it often as if, somehow, reflected from its immensities, I will one day find myself gazing into your eyes.

Dear Nettie, I don't write to God no more, I write to you.

I wash her body, it feels like I'm praying. My hands tremble and my breath short.

Because you rubbed my shoulder last night a poem traveled down my arm.

I smoke when I want to talk to God. I smoke when I want to make love. Lately I feel like me and God make love just fine anyhow.

What happened to the man I love?'... 'Albert knew as well as me that love would have to go some to be better than ours. Us had the kind of love couldn't be improve. That's what I thought.

I lie back on the bed and haul up my dress. Yank down my bloomers. Stick the looking glass tween my legs. Ugh. All that hair. Then my pussy lips be black. Then inside look like a wet rose. It a lot prettier than you thought, ain't it? she say from the door.

But when I hear them together all I can do is pull the quilt over my head and finger my little button and titties and cry.

She say, I love you, Miss Celie. And then she haul off and kiss me on the mouth. Um, she say, like she surprise. I kiss her back, say, um, too. Us kiss and kiss till us can't hardly kiss no more. Then us touch each other. I don't know nothing bout it, I say to Shug. I don't know much, she say. Then I feels something real soft and wet on my breast, feel like one of my little lost babies mouth. Way after while, I act like a little lost baby too.

Young mothers traveling alone doted on him. He was helpful, modest, quick, and definitely knew his place—they could read this easily in his demeanor—because he, like so many colored men, had perfected the art of doing the most intimate things to and for white people without once appearing to look at them. It was an invaluable skill.

Now he realized he'd probably understood nothing, and it also occurred to him what a superficial, ultimately fraudulent act it was to sleep with a person you did not really know.

I love him bodily, as a man! I love his walk, his size, his shape, his smell, the kinkiness of his hair. I love the very texture of his palms. The pink of his brows. I love his feet. And I love his dear eyes in which the vulnerability and beauty of his soul can be plainly read.

Do his business, she say. Do his business. Why, Miss Celie. You make it sound like he going to the toilet on you.

He never ast me nothing bout myself. He clam on top of me and fuck and fuck, even when my head bandaged. Nobody ever love me, I say.