Quotes About Yearning

it seemed an awful waste that we weren't in love with each other.

But the happiness you hoped to win for me will never be mine.

So much of me longs to run after him and cry, 'Yes, yes, yes!' A few hours ago, when I wrote I could never mean anything to him, such a chance would have seemed heaven on earth. And surely I could give him - a sort of contentment? That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver.

I had found out in that glittering corridor off the ballroom that being with him could be more painful than being away from him.

It was so nice that Simon was here for it - tell him I enjoyed every minute - ' it was glorious writing that - almost like telling him I was glad he'd kissed me. But after I'd posted the letter I was worried in case he guessed what I'd meant.

I leaned against the carved banisters and listened to the music and felt quite different from any way I have ever felt before -- softer, very beautiful and as if a great many men were in love with me and I might very easily be in love with them.

I stood there ringing the bell and banging on the door, feeling I could make someone be there, knowing all the time that I couldn't.

If someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me - and I long to mention it myself. I start subjects leading up to it, and then I feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to speak to him again - and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it!

deep down, in some vague, mixed way I had been letting myself hope that he didn't really care for her, that it was me he loved and that kissing me would have made him realise it...

Our Clare doesn't much care for real life,' Drew told Jane. 'What she needs is to live in a book– the kind that no longer gets written.

I do call it a sign of a beautiful nature if a girl who is in love and surrounded by all the splendour is lonely for her sister.

I don't want your candor. I want your soul in a silver thimble.

Mirrors and images. Or sex and love. These are two separate systems that we miserably try to link.

Longing on a large scale makes history.

The instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms.

it's not the sex you think I've had. it's the sex i want. that's what you smell on me. because the more I look at you, the more A know about us both. And the more A want to have sex with you. because there's a certain kind of sex that has an element of cleansing. it's the antidote to disillusion. the counterpoison.

I would spend the rest of my life turning to speak to her.

If this makes me sexier then where are you going?

She wanted this only, to snuff out the pulse of the shaky faith she'd held for much of her life.

The instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms. Then she wedged herself through the narrow opening in the boards and he watched her cross the street. Nothing moved out there. She was the lone stroke of motion, crew and extras gone, equipment gone, and she was cool and silvery slim and walking head-high, with technical precision, toward the last trailer in the service station, where she would find her clothes, dress quickly and disappear.

Maybe he didn't want that life after all, starting over broke, hailing a cab in a busy intersection filled with jockeying junior executives, arms aloft, bodies smartly spinning to cover every compass point. What did he want that was not posthumous? He stared into space. He understood what was missing, the predatory impulse, the sense of large excitation that drove him through his days, the sheer and reeling need to be.

There were times when he felt the lure of a submoronic mode of being.

She walked into the room and went to the window. She opened it. She threw the window open. She didn't know why she did this. Then she knew. She wanted to feel the sea tang on her face and the flow of time in her body, to tell her who she was.

Most of our longings go unfulfilled.