Quotes About Yearning

A veces me siento desdichada, nada más que de no saber qué es lo que estoy echando de menos.

La literatura quizá hace a los seres humanos más aptos para la infelicidad, porque despierta unos apetitos y deseos que no pueden cumplirse, pero enriquece la sensibilidad de las personas y las da una comprensión mayor del mundo. Los hace…sentir mucho más aptos para la libertad.

Hay días en que la recuerdo y me pregunto: ¿Qué estará haciendo? Hay noches en que la extraño y me pregunto: ¿Qué me estoy haciendo?

So much longing. So many lives filled with longing. It's what stories? all our stories? are made of. And what is longing made of except hope?

The longing for sweets is really a yearning for love or "sweetness.

I yearned for lightness; I still yearn for lightness. Lightness is freedom -- freedom from the heaviness of too much stuff, too many words, too heavy a pull toward inertia. I feared being buried in stone -- becoming stone.

All those films in which the woman doesn't get her man, those films of yearning unsatisfied, hearts unappeased. You like them; I've liked them too. But I'll tell you what: try belonging body and soul to a man who will never belong to you; see how well you like those films then. "Don't ask for the moon-we have the stars!" ... "Pardon me saying so, but fuck the fucking stars!

The sight made her ache. How can I not touch you? she thought hopelessly, and then she was doing it, her fingers on his wrist. He didn't jump or even look at her, just stopped writing. Neither one of them moved, nothing moved, and the whole thing lasted three or four seconds at most, but when Pen took her hand away and started to breathe again, her chest hurt, as though she had been holding her breath for a very long time.

I have lost things I will never stop missing.

Still Dev missed him. Not all the time or even very often, but now and then, missing would hit Dev, throw him off balance, a sudden, undeniable ache to know his father, how his voice sounded, what his face did when he read the paper or looked at his son. And the missing wasn't fair; it wasn't earned. In fact, the missing, the searching, the imagining were so unfair that when you put them all together, they looked a lot like betrayal.

Like love was a habit you couldn't break.

It's just that without wanting to or trying to—and for years I was deliberately trying not to—I held on to love. Or it held on to me. Not active love; not love, the verb form. It was more just there, a small, unshakable thing, leftover, useless, as vestigial as wisdom teeth or a tailbone, but still potent enough so that when I heard his voice on the phone, my heart gave a tiny jump of hope that made me want to slap it.

She only hoped, and her hope was slender- a wisp of hope, a ghost.

since she and Marcus and her mother left, she's been close to obsessed with wanting

I'd figured out that a real life didn't mean attaining my heart's desire, but knowing it, meant not the satisfaction, but the longing. Knowing what you love and why, I found out, is as real as it gets.

When I pointed to the list, he read it quickly, then said, "I wish I'd known what was happening. I wish she'd told me," so ruefully that I wanted to touch him and did.

I'd figured out that a real life didn't mean attaining my heart's desire, but knowing it, meant not in the satisfaction, but the longing. Knowing what you love and why, I found out, is as real as it gets.

he] knows this, just as he knows that any story told about what has happened in the past can never be certain, that there is always yearning in the piecing together of information. The story of history is the story of its telling and its retelling. There are truths lost to time and desire.

Because every one of us has our box, a dark chamber stowing the thing that lanced our heart. It contains what you do everything for, strive for, wound everything around you.

I couldn't let go of the thought that it had, in fact, been he, restless and moody Heathcliff. Day after day, he floated through all the Wal-Marts in America, searching for me in a million lonely aisles.

You know what I wisht I had, Ma? A pouch like a 'possum, to tote things. --The Yearling

Yet it was . . . Asahel who knew those books secretly by heart, and read, as laboriously as he did everything else, any scrap of paper with printing on it, poring hungrily over the magic of words.

she kept hoping Mulder and Scully would kiss each other well and good. Having a relationship vicariously through fantasy and excellent scripting was all Aggie had at the moment - and to be honest, it wasn't all that bad. Her imagination was always better than reality...

There's more hunger in the world than love.