Quotes About Yearning

I know what it is to be out entertaining millions and yet wanting to be home because you miss your loved ones.

Among absent lovers, ardor always fares better.

I haven't had lunch for years.

I still want magic, I find. The old fashioned kind. I don't believe in it, but I still have a hankering for it.

Do I like Manhattan? No. Do I want to be in Manhattan? No.

Believe in some beneficent force beyond your own limited self. God, god, god: where are you? I want you, need you: the belief in you and love and mankind.

I want a son with you," he said huskily. "I want a houseful of children." Her eyes sketched his face. "Dark-haired little boys with green eyes…." He crushed her mouth under his, roughly, hungrily, possessively. "Don't tempt me," he said tightly. "I want you like hell." "I wouldn't stop you," she said softly. "Anything you want, Garet. Anything.

What a curse, to want only one person." He drew her into his arms and kissed her again, hungrily. "What a glorious blessing, to want only one person and be wanted back, even after thirty-six long years," he whispered.

Why did you want to see me?" He studied her face curiously. "Why do I always want to see you?" he countered. His voice was like velvet. "You're part of me now, Cecily." She colored. She couldn't meet his eyes. Did he think she didn't know about Audrey? "And you wouldn't lie to me," she said. "Any more than you'd lie to me," he replied softly. So they were both liars.

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot. Teach me to hear the mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. Decide what this is about Write a second verse yourself

I love Wales, but it doesn't love me.

Ann left him there, kneeling among the violets looking out into the fog as if that glimpse of the castle had somehow broken his heart.

Studies show that the IQ range of most creative people is surprisingly narrow, around 120 to 130. Higher IQs can perform certain kinds of tasks better--logic, feats of memory, and so on. But if the IQ is much higher or lower than that, the window of creativity closes. Nonetheless, for some reason we believe more is better, so people yearn for tip-top IQs, and that calls for bigger memories. A fast, retentive memory is handy, but no skeleton key for survival.

There are times when the human face and body can express the yearning of the heart so accurately that you can, as they say, read them like a book. Do not abandon me.

Ordinary people, untwins, seek their soulmate, take lovers, marry. Tormented by their incompleteness they strive to be part of a pair.

They were like amputees, only it was not a limb they were missing, but their very souls.

She's not coming back. No. He knew it was true. He had the feeling that the world might easily stop turning without the girl in it. Every hour was arduous, and when it was over, you had to start again with a new one, no better. He wondered how long he would be able to keep it going.

There are times when the human face and body can express the yearning of the heart so accurately that you can, as they say, read them like a book.

When I was a child, books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning that one ever expects to be fulfilled. And during this time, these days when I read all day and half the night, when I slept under a counterpane strewn with books, when my sleep was black and dreamless and passed in a flash and I woke to read again—the lost joys of reading returned to me.

The beginning, perhaps. The girl without the mother. But after that . . . I wish someone could tell me what it means. I wish there was someone who could just tell me the truth.

She stares up- and downriver in search of something. Something she longs for. Something she has been expecting every day, and every day it doesn't come, and still she waits and still she looks and still she yearns, but the hope dwindles with every day that passes. Now she waits hopelessly.

so don't tell me how love will rescue me, I was carnivorous about love, I ate love to the ankles, my thighs are gnawed with love still and yet I cannot have loved, since living was all I could do and for that, I was caged in bone spur endlessly

You come to this, here's the marrow of it, not moving, not standing, it's too much to hold up, what I really want to say is, I don't want no fucking country, here or there and all the way back, I don't like it, none of it, easy as that. I'm giving up on land to light on, and why not, I can't perfect my own shadow, my violent sorrow, my individual wrists

Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me-and I long to mention it myself