Quotes About Yearning

She wanted this too. She wanted me to watch her. She wanted me to follow her. She wanted to feel my eyes. She wanted to lift me out of death.

You can't hate a proov when you're near one, because you want to be like them, you ache to be like them. You want to be perfect, too, and you know if you were improved you'd act just like they do, and feel what they feel, and glide through the world with sky-colored eyes and hair like sunlight, and nothing dirty or broken could ever touch you.

We are poor mortals, but it dreams to us that we can fly.

But what can you do with another person's beauty? The satisfied lover is as little able to possess the beauty of his beloved as the one who hopelessly observes it from afar.

Many accuse conservatism of being no more than a highly-wrought work of mourning, a translation into the language of politics of the yearning for childhood that lies deep in us all.

I'm a lost soul. We do wail.

it is because I am a man who occasionally aspires to things beyond the belly and the phallus.

I saw my face in your own. It was strange. I wanted to know you better.

She did not notice that already, in her memory, those months […] of fretting and tardiness, quarrels and crooked seams, had been transmuted into something precious, to be remembered with yearning.

The chalks and slates fascinated them. They yearned to hold the white sticks in their hands, make little white squiggles like the other children, draw pictures of huts, cows, goats, and flowers. It was like magic, to make things appear out of nowhere.

Am I in love? - Yes, since I'm waiting. The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.

Absence is the figure of privation; simultaneously, I desire and I need. Desire is squashed against need: that is the obsessive phenomenon of all amorous sentiment.

It is my desire I desire, and the loved being is no more than its tool.

I ask for nothing but to live in my suffering.

The text you write must prove to me that it desires me.

Only I know what my road has been for the last year and a half: the economy of this motionless and anything but spectacular mourning that has kept me unceasingly separate by its demands; a separation that I have ultimately always projected to bring to a close by a book--Stubbornness, secrecy.

Any demand is frigid until desire, until neurosis forms in it.

Disappointment of various places and trips. Not really comfortable anywhere. Very soon, this cry: I want to go back! (but where? since she is no longer anywhere, who was once where I could go back). I am seeking my place. Sitio.

Is love then, that madness I *want*?

I'm cold, the lover says, let's go back, but there is no road, no way, the boat is wrecked.

Like a kind of melancholy mirage, the other withdraws into infinity and I wear myself out trying to get there.

But isn't desire always the same, whether the object is present or absent? Isn't the object always absent?

Endlessly I sustain the discourse of the beloved's absence; actually a preposterous situation; the other is absent as referent, present as allocutory. The singular distortion generates a kind of insupportable present; I am wedged between two tenses, that of the reference and that of the allocution: you have gone (which I lament), you are here (since I am addressing you). Whereupon I know what the present, that difficult tense is: a pure portion of anxiety.

Nela vejo apenas o objeto de um desejo esteticamente retido.