Quotes About Yearning

To find someone — oh yes — that is the problem. To have mutual love, that is so difficult indeed.

Oh why is she going away just when I want so much to be with her! She is the answer to the riddle of my life.

He did not consciously wish for death but he grieved at night for some blank thing which he could not even name.

She had dreamed of a separated man, a sad austere secluded man, a man with a great sorrow, an ascetic. She was a moth that wanted to be burnt by a cold cold flame.

If I could only pray, he thought, if there was only some reservoir of force out of which I could draw something extra.

Ludens thought, why can't I do that, why can't I just ask a woman to hold my hand, why can't I ask Franca to!

He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to be utterly revealed to her, he wanted her to understand.

He . . . felt as if, wanting to be needed by everyone, he were merely becoming some sort of semi-invisible messenger.

I must return to my freedom which I now realise is something so essential that it makes my love for you seem like death.

But my wants are huge, my desires are rapacious, I want love, I want the splendour and violence of love, and I want it now, I want someone of my own.

A great sword pierced Sefton's heart. She too had loved Lucas with her own kind of deep secret love, and it seemed to her in this moment that, if he had asked her, she would have gone with him anywhere.

Year after year he wondered if he should go back and year after year felt it all recede from him past hope, past endeavour . . . He could not find his way back there.

Why did I ever leave them, what was I fleeing from? What spoilt scene that I could not then endure?

The absence of the loved person is so absolute.

He had lived throughout upon magic, upon romantic love in its fullest sense, and this magic, now that she was gone, seemed sometimes likely to kill him.

Although he longed to see Louise, and to see Aleph, he increasingly lacked the will to go.

I've got to see you, I've got to talk about her, I shall go mad.

She dreamt she saw the Polish Rider passing slowly by and he was weeping and she called out to him, but he turned his head away. She dreamt that she was drowning in the pool of tears.

It had been his fate not to be interested in anything except everything.

But now, when things had happened which were too appalling to think about, when his romantic love was a corpse and his cleverness a ghost, he knew where it was he wanted to lay his head.

I run, I run, I am gathered to your heart. But no, she thought, it's not like that. I am alone. I cannot reach anybody.

Mary thought suddenly, this is an abomination, sitting here and having this conventional conversation when I feel so desperate and deprived and torn inside. She thought, is there nothing I can do about it?

Every manjack craving for love, and how rarely it all worked out.

They had become, year by year, month by month, mysterious to her, her love for them an extended pain, a web or field of force, of which she felt at times the almost breaking tension.