Quotes About Yearning

When we don't have something in our lives, we tell ourselves that we don't need it, that we don't want it—because the alternative is aching for it, which breeds a sense of loss. So, we remove it from the picture we make of our lives. What we don't see, we don't miss.

She thought about this. She had analyzed it in depth. When you live alone, travel alone, exist solely on the outskirts of other people's lives, you do have time to wonder why what you want most in life is out of reach. You also have the time to tell yourself that you don't want it at all, though whether you can ever be completely convinced is something else.

Unconditional love. In that instant, I felt a sharp craving for it, and there was one place I knew I would find it in spades.

Emptiness did that to a person. Her insides were a big black hole where dreams of her mother had been.

No, I don't need to do this, she thought. This isn't what I want. I want my mother. The thought startled her, but she couldn't shake it. She wanted Marjorie—wanted to pour out her heart and cry in the arms of the one person whose job it was to listen. It didn't matter how old or how independent Kathryn was. She needed her mother.

When we don't have something in our lives, we tell ourselves that we don't need it, that we don't want it—because the alternative is aching for it, which breeds a sense of loss. So, we remove it from the picture we make of our lives. What we don't see, we don't miss. Then, as Paul said, something happens

fathom clearly in the background din, but its warmth speared through his loins, made him grit his teeth. Hiro pulled her more securely to his side. "It must be a mere manifestation of your

It's not so much what we're missing—it's what we fantasize we're missing.

we believe there is something essential we don't have that's obtainable. what we long for doesn't exist, not anywhere. the ache is in the belief)

I think of the emptiness of outer space, and the men in their little pods going up there alone, wives and girlfriends left behind. I think of Abel and me lying on the grass, looking up at the stars, and how great that was, but, still, I was always waiting for him to turn his head. To look at me

I am looking for my Caravaggio, always.

There are some things too dreadful to be revealed, and it is even more dreadful how, in spite of our better instincts,we long to know about them.

Rupert hardly knew what to say. If only he could take her to bed with him, he thought as they approached the pensione, so much might be smoothed out there. But perhaps it was just as well that circumstances made it impossible at this moment, for that might bring about even deeper complications.

Then she fretted, ah, she fretted, But 'ere six months had gone past, She had got another poodle dog Exactly like the last.… thought Belinda frivolously, but the old song had come into her head and seemed appropriate. Some tame gazelle or some gentle dove or even a poodle dog—something to love, that was the point.

She wanted him. Not in the sweet way of poetry, though there was that music in the symmetry of his body, in the careful meshing of bone and sinew and flesh that made him. Her want was raw. Physical. She felt it in the palms of her hands and the flesh of her lips and the heaviness of her breasts. In her life, she'd been hungry, and thirsty. She'd needed sleep. She had never, in her life, needed to touch a man.

He kissed her violently, wanting to somehow inhale her into himself, unable to stop the fury of his reaction, the trembling rocking hunger for her—so vast and all-encompassing, he couldn't stand it. Mattie, flowing all around him, met his savagery. He clasped her hips hard against him, found himself biting her neck, laving her breasts with his tongue. He felt such unblunted, furious desire he thought he might die of it.

He looked up at the rain and closed his eyes, his hands still wrapped around her back. Mattie knew with an acute awareness that she would always remember this moment: both of them nude in the falling twilight of a mountain summer, sated and yet still hungry, Zeke's strong face tipped to received the gift of rain, his broad hands warm on her.

His mouth was wet and hot and intensely demanding, so sharp and piercing with need that it broke through Mattie's defenses the way nothing else could have. A burst of excruciating hunger made her almost frantic with wanting him. She shifted in his arms and met his kiss wide open, giving as furiously as she took. "Oh, Mattie," he said against her mouth. "I've never wanted a woman in my life like I want you. You're driving me crazy.

Mattie watched him cross the clearing with long-limbed ease, his movements loose and calm. His hair shone in the sunlight. Her heart caught. Strider. Yes, she loved him. It wasn't logical or sensible or anything of those other things. He was not the kind of man she'd daydreamed about all of her life, safe and stolid and dependable, but he was the one. The One.

The cravings of the soul of man before music and painting were discovered must have resembled the stutterings for impossible utterance in the dumb.

The desire to love is the impulsion of the soul towards the Ideal, it is the sense of the indefinite, the perfect. It is also insatiable, for the perfect is always on the horizon, never attainable.

But they who drink the Muse's breath Pay for the draught with many tears-- Their destiny until their death To seek her shadow down the years.

Give me to drink the poison of thy breast-- Dark cruel wine from grapes of passion pressed-- Till I am drunk beyond delirium's dream In that dim utter deep where men may rest.

Oh, kill me with thy kisses! Drain me dry Of pain and life, nor leave me breath to sigh; Yea, feed my spirit, starving at thy lips, Thy sweet perfidious poison ere I die!