Quotes About Intimacy

Acho que, quando alguém lhe conta uma coisa que costuma guardar, você se sente privilegiado, não por saber algo que ninguém mais sabe, mas por se sentir escolhido. Dá a impressão de que aquela pessoa quer que a vida dela se entrelace com a sua.

She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

Le hablas de mí? Liesel no pudo responder enseguida. Tal vez fue la súbita sacudida amorosa que sintió por él. ¿O había sido así siempre? Era probable. Privada del habla, deseó que la besara, que la agarrara de la mano y la atrajera hacia él. No importaba dónde. En la boca, en el cuello, en la mejilla. Tenía toda la piel libre para él, a la espera.

He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

When she drinks the coffee I made, I look at the redness of her lips and wish I could just stand up, walk over, and kiss them. I want to feel the flesh of them and the softness against my own. I want to breathe in her and with her. I want to be able to put my teeth to her neck and have my fingers touch her back and run them through the lovely, mild yellow color of her hair.

You know I've always wanted someone to sing to me, but now I know that what I want more is to sing to you.

It comes from looking at the heart of things, from stopping to smell not only the roses but the bushes as well. It is a quality of attention to ordinary life that is so loving and intimate it is almost worship.

When you stand before God, don't you want to see the face of a friend, instead of a stranger?

Her body is probably naked by now but there is nothing as naked as human eyes: they haven't even got skin over them.

After a while, marriage is a sibling relationship--marked by occasional, and rather regrettable, episodes of incest.

When you're in love and trying to make someone love you back, you can hear the texture of your own footfalls, the whistling passage of your breath. Invisible eyes monitor you constantly: even at night something presides over the shape of your sleep. Every thought carries a tick or a cross.

there in the night their bed had the towelly smell of marriage.

On STDs] This be Nature's way of recommending monogamy.

How astonishingly intimate the business of fiction is, more intimate than anything that issues from the psychiatrist's couch or even the lovers' bed. You see the soul, pinned and wriggling on the wall.

But you've got to do it in the end. You have to end up with somebody. Because otherwise you go mad, or you start worrying about going mad, which is even worse. You can't go on sleeping alone.

El amor me resulta difícil. Y al amor yo le resulto difícil.

Love finds me difficult.

And still the handwritten letters keep coming, the words keep coming, the words a woman wants to hear. No dashed-off faxes from Trader. Faxes, which fade in six months, like contemporary love. No scrawled reminders propped against the toaster, such as I get from Tobe. And used to get from Deniss, from Jon, from Shawn, from Duwain. GET SOME TOILET PAPER FOR CHRIST SAKE. That wouldn't do for Jennifer. She got a fucking poem every other day.

Some unknown but apparently significant number of both homosexual and heterosexual couples do seem to believe that sex is hottest with comparative strangers and love is the property of emotional trust and intimacy.

A "successful" relationship is best defined not as one that sustains erotic intensity but rather one that helps to soften the brute fact that we're alone in this world—and will leave it.

Why is love rich beyond all other possible human experiences and a sweet burden to those seized in its grasp? Because we become what we love and yet remain ourselves.

When I spoke of beauty, I was thinking of Rilke's notion that the beautiful is nothing but the beginning of the terrible, and of Hölderlin's idea that the beautiful can unite extreme opposites in intimacy.

It's never the same, drinking with your father," said Yevgeny and poured himself another vodka. "It's like kissing your sister; your heart isn't in it.