Quotes About Relationships

Doctor, I had never had anybody like her in my life, she was the fulfillment of my most lascivious adolescent dreams– but marry her, can she be serious? You see, for all her preening and perfumes, she has a very low opinion of herself, and simultaneously– and here is the source of much of our trouble-a ridiculously high opinion of me. And simultaneously, a very low opinion of me! She is one confused Monkey, and, I'm afraid, not too very bright.

You don't have to work in a mental hospital to know about husbands and wives.

He calls his brother. it is the wrong brother from whom to seek consolation, but what can he do? When it comes to consolation it is always the wrong brother, the wrong father, the wrong mother, the wrong wife, which is why one must be content to console oneself and be strong and go on in life consoling others.

Memories particularly of when they weren't being what parents are nine-tenths of the time, the taskmasters, the examples, the moral authorities, the nags of pick-that-up and you're-going-to-be-late, keepers of the diary of her duties and routines, memories, rather, of when they found one another afresh, beyond the tensions between parental mastery and inept childish uncertainty, of those moments of respite in a family's life when they could reach one another in calm

You get them wrong before you meet them, while you're anticipating meeting them; you get them wrong while you're with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them wrong all again...That's how we know we're alive: we're wrong. Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that- well, lucky you.

The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It's getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That's how we know we're alive: we're wrong.

Why, emotionally, is a man of his type reciprocally connected to a woman of her type? The usual reason: their flaws fit.

I'm not in the business. 'Liking people' is often just another racket.

Hypergamy. Do you know what it is?" "Never heard of it." "Bedding women of a superior social class. Desire based on a superior social class.

Now that he was no longer grounded in his hate, we were going to talk about women.

I'm the only one who gives her a whole can of tuna for lunch, and I'm not talking dreck, either. I'm talking Chicken of the Sea, Alex.

my imagination I am unfaithful to everybody, by the way, not just to you.

Ordinarily my mother drew no strength from scorn

What I'm saying, Doctor, is that I don't seem to stick my dick up these girls, as much as I stick it up their backgrounds - as though through fucking I will discover America.

Llega un momento, como me llegó a mí hace unos meses, en que se halla uno en tal estado de desamparo y confusión, que no logra comprender lo que otrora resultaba obvio: por qué hago lo que hago, por qué vivo donde vivo, por qué comparto mi vida con quien la comparto.

You don't want to be a pauper's wife, though it is all right to be a pauper's girlfriend, especially when you are able, with the pauper's encouragement, to fuck everybody else on the side.

Though sooner or later all husbands resemble Drenka's Matija, do they not?

It's the Sundays that keep these couples together. As if Sundays alone could be any worse.

she was fifty-five and seared with hot flashes, and her daughter's was now the female form exuding the magnetic currents.

If you don't go crazy because of your husband's vices, you go crazy because of his virtues.

Fiction's about what it is to be a f*****g human being.

Todo el tiempo que estuvimos separados yo estuve pensando en ella, pero un día me dijo: 'Mis sentimientos han cambiado, qué puedo hacer, ya no aguanto a Bruce'. Como si fueran sus sentimientos los que la controlaran a ella y no al revés. Como si sus sentimientos estuvieran fuera de ella y no bajo su control, como un autobús que uno tiene que esperar.

he cannot close his eyes without being subjected to the diplopic double image of his lover's steady, supplicating and aging (!?) eyes, and then his own eyes vertical above her, darting from side to side, more concerned with how he is seen than with what he sees.

Everyone around us could see the way Lyndon hung on the sound of his wife's voice, saw the tiny curtsies, her social motions, as though each movement of Lady Bird gently burst a layer of impediment between her and him.