Quotes About Yearning

How strange it is For the heart to be loveless, and as cold as these.

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs: — Philip Larkin, from "Wants," The Complete Poems of Philip Larkin , ed. Archie Burnett (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2012)

How weightless words are when nothing will do. from "Gospel

The earth drinks all that's left of you and asks for more.

I have tried to write poetry for people for whom there is no poetry.

What a wicked game to play To make me feel this way What a wicked thing to do To let me dream of you What a wicked thing to say That you've never felt this way What a wicked thing to do To let me dream of you

You tasted it. Isn't that enough? Of what do you ever get more than a taste? That's all we're given in life, that's all we're given of life. A taste. There is no more.

I wanted her body and soul, but body first.

I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't do anything but think about him. At night I dream of him, all day I wait to see him, and when I do see him my heart turns over and I think I will faint with desire.

A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty. But one no longer has the right to say so aloud.

I think I love him for this loneliness, that it's what pushed me toward him. I love his aloofness, his disengagement with the outside world. Such singularity moves me.

Always we desire too much or not enough and we compensate accordingly.

Desire does not go out like a match, it extinguishes slowly as it burns into ash.

Finally, slowly, I raise my head and lean back on my elbows and take in the sight of him. I'm struck by his voracity. He's like a ravenous child who has just been given food and prefers to choke on it. I'm not sure where this need for another man's sex comes from but I sense that on the other side of all the repression and self-censoring there exists an equally powerful fever.

C'était de l'amour évidemment. Et demain, ça sera un grand vide.

Si la vie m'était laissé, il se pourrait que je te prie de la partager avec moi.

I listen to you, but all I want to remember is your skin, your smell, the life that pulses within you.

I say to myself: Basically, what's new? Don't we already spend most of our time avoiding each other? Missing each other? I smile at the double meaning—an unsightly, tragic smile, of course.

Dans le spectacle de son absence, c'est sa présence que je reconnais.

On ne trahit pas les disparus. Ce sont eux qui nous trahissent. Parce qu'ils ont fait défaut, parce qu'ils sont partis, alors qu'on avait besoin d'eux, parce qu'ils ont filé sans préavis, parce qu'ils nous laissent avec le manque et aucune solution pour y remédier. Et quand ils ont lâché notre main, qui nous en voudrait d'en saisir une autre ?

Dreadful will be the day when the world becomes contented, when one great universal satisfaction spreads itself over the world. Sad will be the day for every man when he becomes absolutely contented with the life that he is living, with the thoughts that he is thinking, with the deeds that he is doing, when there is not forever beating at the doors of his soul some great desire to do something larger which he knows that he was meant and made to do because he is a child of God.

THUMB, I HOPE I WILL NOT BORE YOU WITH HOW TOTALLY, TOTALLY I ADORE YOU. THE FUNNY WAY YOU HAVE OF TALKING, THE CUTE WAY YOU HAVE OF WALKING. PLEASE DO NOT FEEL THAT I AM STALKING YOU. LOVE, HENDERSON

By far the most common craving of pregnant women is not to be pregnant.

You get a dog on your mind, it seems to fill up the whole space. Everything you do reminds you of that dog. When