Quotes About Yearning

The sadness you feel is not your own. It's his sadness you feel in your heart, Amy, for missing you.

I could have held his hand.

To know and be known: that was the final desire, the heart of love.

I should think it a wonderful thing to be missed, the way that I miss him.

This isn't a question of odds. Of all the men in the world, that woman hose you. If she's still out there, she's waiting for you. Staying alive any way she can until you find her.

In a hundred years, you get around to thinking about pretty much everything. All the things you did, the people you knew, the mistakes you made. The books you read, the music you listened to, how the sun felt, the rain. It's all still there inside you. But it's not enough, is it? That's the thing. The past is never enough.

The world is not my home, (she sang in her silky voice) for I'm just passing through. The treasures are laid up somewhere, high beyond the blue. The angels beckon me from heaven's open door, and I can't feel at home in this world anymore.

For the first time in my life, I felt the pain of missing people I had not yet left.

This ravishing world. This achingly bittersweet, ravishing world.

That was always the hardest part, missing you.

Its melancholy epigraph came from the Greek poet Constantin Cavafy, as translated by Phil Andros: Now and again he swears To commence a cleaner life, But when the night comes With its dark promptings, Its uncertainties and its enterprises When the night comes With its own dominion Over the body, he returns, lusting and searching, Lost, to that same morose delight.*

That" — Jacob took my hand in his and squeezed — "that would be ideal." He didn't let go. Neither did I.

Jacob didn't exactly smile, but his last look at me from inside the cab was nothing short of smoldering. My lips tingled in response, as if it was his soft mouth, not his eyes, that had just raked me. The cab pulled away from the curb. Mom sighed. I would have sighed, too, except I didn't want to be one of those pathetic girls who pined for their boyfriends . . . even though I was pining. And worrying.

Her eyelids fluttered. "Francis," she murmured. "Cathy," he murmured back. "Heathcliff," muttered Kit, as he set about making sandwiches.

And yes, I confess, when I looked at him, I thought of Heathcliff and Mr Rochester and Maxim de Winter... and how could I not, when I had been waiting for them to step out of the pages of the books I loved; when I knew them so well, read them inside out and into myself?

Somewhere there are gardens where peacocks sing like nightingales, somewhere there are caravans of separated lovers traveling to meet each other; there are ruby fires on distant mountains, and blue comets that come in spring like sapphires in the black sky. If this is not so, meet me in the shameful yard, and we will plant a gallows tree, and swing like sad pendulums, never once touching.

My soul longs for God, but a man is not just his soul, is he? Terrible to say, my clay lusts after the clay of nubile girl. To soothe my guilt, and please forgive my indelicacy, I have convinced myself that I seek to find God again in their arms and their unmentionable places.

It occurs to me that my thinking has been faulty: we do not feel God's absence. We feel the absence of all that is lost to God, that which has set itself apart and refuses to return, believing itself to be in exile.

If there's a hell, I truly believe, it's getting exactly what you've always wanted.

Life was like that. Everyone loved the wrong person who loved someone else or didn't love at all.

The idea that he and Scott could get away together, maybe hang out for the hour before he has to rush back to get picked up by his mother in front of the school—when he thinks of that, he feels almost hungry. He's aware of his own brain working in ways it never used to: a switch has been flicked and he is now a stranger to himself—a stranger he has not yet decided he wants to be.

Ah, my wishes become hopes.

akuntala must go to-day; I miss her now at heart; I dare not speak a loving word Or choking tears will start. My eyes are dim with anxious thought; Love strikes me to the life: And yet I strove for pious peace— I have no child, no wife.

akuntala must go to-day; I miss her now at heart; I dare not speak a loving word Or choking tears will start. My eyes are dim with anxious thought; Love strikes me to the life: And yet I strove for pious peace— I have no child, no wife. What must a father feel, when come The pangs of parting from his child at home?