Quotes About Depth

You'll get so tired of Blair Water — you'll know all the people in it — what they are and can be — it'll be like reading a book for the twentieth time.

Ä°çimde birçok Anne var. Bazen, bu yüzden bu kadar sorunlu bir insan olduÄŸumu düÅŸünüyorum. Yaln?zca tek bir Anne olsa her ÅŸey çok daha rahat olurdu ama o zaman da hiç ilginç olmazd?.

Hiçbir kusuru olmayan yerleri de insanlar? da sevmem. Gerçekten mükemmel bir insan?n hiç ilginç olmayaca??n? düÅŸünüyorum.

Bukan kegagalan yang merupakan kejahatan, tapi cita-cita yang dangkal.

To see things as they really were--what an empoverishment!

Just like real sex, the touching was good, but there came a point in time when a woman needed to be filled - deeply.

Her blue eyes capture the distance. -Sonya Cheuse

Deep within, every human being hoards a pitch-black riddle. The darkness of the iris is nothing other than the starless night, the darkness deep in the eye is nothing other than the darkness of the universe.

Nel profondo di ogni essere umano c'è un enigma nero come la notte. Lo scuro della pupilla altro non è che quella notte priva di stelle, lo scuro giù nel profondo dell'occhio altro non è che il buio stesso dell'universo. Solo come mistero l'uomo assume grandezza e chiarezza sufficienti. [...]

Agatha, I don't love you merely with the glorious eyes of the blind, but I see you as you are.

I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.

I smiled at him, as Doyle squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. Some people are addicted to falling in love, Doctor. Some people love that rush of new emotions, and when that first rush of new love is spent, they move on to the next, thinking the love wasn't real. What I felt in her, and potentially in you, is the love of years. Love that knows that that first rush of freshness isn't the real thing. It's the tip of the iceberg.

Your eyes. It's a day's worth of work to look into them.

I could never, I knew then, lose myself in love. Margery had accused me of coldness, and she was right, but she was also wrong: For me, for always, the paramount organ of passion was the mind. Unnatural, unbalanced, perhaps, but it was true: Without intellect, there could be no love.

People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.

If she ever knew me at all she must later have discovered that for those of us who feel deeply and who are at all conscious of the inextricable tangle of human thought there is only one response to be made—ironic tenderness and silence.

How difficult it is to analyse these relationships which lie under the mere skin of our actions; for loving is only a sort of skin-language, sex a terminology merely.

But is there a friendship possible to attain which is deeper, even limitlessly deep, and yet wordless, idealess? It seems somehow necessary to find a human being to whom one can be faithful, not in the body (I leave that to the priests) but in the culprit mind?

If things were always what they seemed, how impoverished would be the imagination of man!

There are hurts so deep that one cannot reach them or heal them with words.

...the painful intensity of my sensations, even when they're happy ones; the blissful intensity of my sensations, even when they're sad.

Black is not sad... Black is poetic.

Life possesses an amazing array of profoundly sad faces.

Sadness is very close to hate.