Quotes About Yearning

Making love with you Is like drinking sea water. The more I drink The thirstier I become, Until nothing can slake my thirst But to drink the entire sea.

Give me your mouth. Your grace is as beautiful as sleep. You move against me like a wave That moves in sleep. Your body spreads across my brain Like a bird filled summer; Not like a body, not like a separate thing. But like a nimbus that hovers Over every other thing in all the world — Kenneth Rexroth, from " When We with Sappho," The Phoenix and the Tortoise (New Directions, 1944)

Görünürde bir müzisyen iyi çalman?n peÅŸindedir ama asl?nda neyin peÅŸindedir? Ä°ster övgü olsun ister yakar?, her ÅŸark? sevgiliye daha çok baÄŸlanmak içindir. ... Çünkü insan neye özlem duyduÄŸunu bilmese de özlem hâlâ varl???n? sürdürüyor.

You are still in love with her. No. But I think I'm in love a little with the memory of her.

Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

I'm looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love.

All movement, of every creature, comes from the desire after something better.

There is a chill deeper than that of death, In the return of the beloved and not of love. And there is no warmth for it But the warmth of a world which needs more than the sun-- Or the warmth of lament for beauty, Which is graven on many stones.

I keep my closet neat now, The skeleton well covered. But when you even walk by the locked door, The breezes of your look Stir what hangs inside-- And I wonder what you are hearing When those knee-bones knock together.

...I must see you again — die in your arms or live in your embrace.

Another day, another pang that you are afar.

[M]y eyes moistened yesterday with your dear, dear letter in my hand. Was it foolish to kiss the senseless paper, to clasp it with the involuntary laugh of uncontrollable emotion? Don't you think one could go mad of pure longing?...

What is the reason that, where'er I go, A sad sensation--not exactly woe, Though still sometimes approaching wretchedness, A wish for something that I can't express, A recklessness as to my future lot, Existence wanting--wanting--don't know what, Should weigh me down? When I Bonabben question, He answers shortly that "it's indigestion.

Seems where you're concerned nothing is easy, so no, I'm not making this easy when everything about you makes me hard." I sucked in sharply at that blatant sexual reference, and swear I felt my nipples get hard. "Jack, I—

Her tone spoke less of nostalgia than reproach, of feelings long coveted and repeated whenever she had the chance.

Artforum hasn't arrived. A state of deep melancholy has taken hold of me. I see the world through a gray veil, not even the best of jokes can exact a smile from me. I could die right now and I wouldn't notice the difference. Or maybe I would.

Ruben Dario has said that the sorrow of the gods lies in not reaching death. As for men, if from the moment they are conscious, they could be sure of reaching death, they could be happy forever, But unfortunately, men are never sure of dying: they feel an obscure desire and a yearning to die but they always doubt that they will die. The sorrow of men, we declare, lies in never being certain of death.

She didn't belong anywhere and she never really belonged to anyone. And everyone else belonged somewhere and to someone. People thought she was too wonderful. But she only wanted to belong to someone. People always thought she was too wonderful to belong to them or that something too wonderful would hurt too much to lose. And that's why she liked him-- because he just thought she was crazy.

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,not only the beds you lay on,but also those desires glowing openlyin eyes that looked at you,trembling for you in voices.

Ma vivi altrove. Il tuo tenero sangue si è fatto altrove. Le parole che dici non hanno riscontro con la scabra tristezza di questo cielo. [...]

If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.

It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

Does absence have a weight?

A soul loves most what is lost...