Quotes About Yearning

You ever hope for something so much? So much you can't sleep, so much your skull hurts? But the thing is, you don't even know if the thing you're wishing for is possible? You don't even know if it could happen? And it's all out of your control?

quick-witted, an open book in her lap; inside her chest pulses something huge, something full of longing, something unafraid.

Werner hears Marie-Laure inhale, Marie-Laure hears Werner scrape three fingernails across the wood, a sound not unlike the sound of a record coursing beneath the surface of a needle, their faces an arm's reach apart. He says, "Es-tu là?

Maybe the idea was that he could write so many letters, deliver so many envelopes back to Sandy, eventually he'd have sent all of himself, and could exist more there than he did here.

The urge to know scrapes against the inability to know.

Nothing that could fit on this page, or a hundred of these pages, would possibly accommodate all the things I should say to you, all the things you deserve to hear.

inside her chest pulses something huge, something full of longing, something unafraid.

Fifteen and a half years as incontestable, a continent he'd never visit, a staircase he'd never climb.

The bookseller said it's in two parts, and this is the first. I thought that next year, if we keep saving, we can get the second—

She wants very badly for her father to say, Yes, that's it absolutely, ma chérie, but he says nothing.

How does life get to be like this? Where she wears her sister's castoff underlinen and a thrice-patched dress while men like Kalaphates go about in silk and velvet with servants trotting behind? While foreigners like these have basins of milk and courtyards of geese and a different coat for every feast day? She feels a scream building inside her, a shriek to shatter glass.

Werner thinks of home all the time. He misses the sound of rain on the zinc roof above his dormer; the feral energy of the orphans; the scratchy singing of Frau Elena as she rocks a baby in the parlor. The smell of the coking plant coming in under the dawn

Werner thinks of home all the time. He misses the sound of rain on the zinc roof above his dormer; the feral energy of the orphans; the scratchy singing of Frau Elena as she rocks a baby in the parlor. The smell of the coking plant coming in under the dawn, the first reliable smell of every day. Mostly he misses Jutta: her loyalty, her obstinacy, the way she always seems to recognize what is right.

I think of you all the time, the veins in your throat, the fuzz on your arms, your eyes, your mouth. I loved you then, I love you now.

I didn't belong here, high on a crag, among rocks and thorns; I belonged high in the blue, sailing through the clouds, heading to the city where there is no baking sun nor icy wind, where the zephyrs nourish every flower and the hills are always clad in green and no one wants for anything. What a fool I was. What was this hunger that drove me to seek more than what I already had?

What was this hunger that drove me to seek more than what I already had?

clinging to a dream he does not want to leave.

Everybody has misplaced someone

What a fool I was. What was this hunger that drove me to seek more than what I already had?

Somwhere across town she was standing at a sink or walking into a closet, his name stowed somewhere in the pleated neurons of her brain, echoing up one dendrite in a billion: David, David.

Go," says Volkheimer again. Werner looks at him a last time: his torn jacket and shovel jaw. The tenderness of his big hands. What you could be.

His longing is such that Rex's absence becomes something like a presence, a scalpel left behind in his gut.

She turns her face toward his, and though she cannot see him, he feels he cannot bear her gaze. "Won't you come with me?

A moment like this--the four of them around the table under the sad, dusty kitchen lamp--could never accommodate all the things she had to say.