Quotes About Yearning

The romantics refuse a life without passion; they

Getting what we want undermines the thrill of wanting it.

These stories make a critical point—many affairs are less about sex than about desire: the desire to feel desired, to feel special, to be seen and connected, to compel attention. All these carry an erotic frisson that makes us feel alive, renewed, recharged. It is more energy than act, more enchantment than intercourse.

Oscar Wilde wrote, "In this world there are only two tragedies. One is getting what one wants, and the other is not getting it." When our desires are unfulfilled, we

In people like us, the craving is as strong as the craving for food or water, the yearning for touch or light or love. I was looking for something--a diversion, an occupation, an unwavering force--that would elevate me, that would lift me out of the melancholy dissection of my own interior geography that otherwise would have consumed me pitilessly, as it had my father. I wanted to fly above myself-- if only for a few hours--and look down in tranquility upon my life.

He was going to think about her and think about her until she disappeared.

It is want that does the world's arousing, and if it were not for that, who knows what might not be interrupted?

My heart's like a wounded beast, clawing me in its death-throes . . . My stomach's a bottomless pit, my mouth a funnel of fire. Hunger and thirst, hunger and thirst . . .

I've known him so long, since the world began. And I'm joined to him for all eternity. Why do these bonds seem like chains to him? All I want is to call his name and hear him answer.

Your hold on me is great. But the universe is greater, and what I need is greater still.

And all I long for is the dawn!

EDMUND: It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!

As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death.

you got him alone tonight--there'll be a beautiful moon to fill him with poetry and loneliness

Your arms, so wonderful! When I die, come embrace me, But take off your sweater first.

You know what it's like," said Storm, "when you want to--just--pour a woman into a glass and--just-drink her--just drink her down, one gulp, body and soul?

We all want the same thing, I guess. Killers or no, good or bad. We all want to be free. We all want to go home.

And music, your music, it teases at my ear. I turn and it fades away and you're not here! Let hopes pass! Let dreams pass! Let them die! Without you, what are they for? I always feel no more than half-way real 'til I hear you sing once more!

He returned her love. He lusted after her sweet young body. He wanted her the way he wanted to breathe the spring air. He had never loved anyone before. He had not known even what this feeling for his tiny slave was. Now in the crisp, clear spring sunlight, he knew.

His heart was now beating rapidly. He wanted to embrace her, cover her with kisses, caress her hair, touch her breast, stroke her thighs: he wanted to sing songs for her, dance dances for her, write poems for her.

In the daytime, when the sun is young, My heart aches for thee. I take a flute and blow it. I go out wandering. Taking a long sword, I go away into the night; I go away under the dark sky. I fear nothing...

She'd become an idea. She was an abstract thing I wanted, a thing that I already had , really, if I could keep it.

She'd been surprised by the pang that the idea of the place gave her. She didn't think of herself as a romantic about location, even though she was secretly romantic about everything.

But won't you miss me?" . . . "I already do," he said.