Quotes About Yearning

not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour… – for the lack of it.

He wanted me to come home--to come home, as he said, and settle down, and whenever he said that I thought of the sediment at the bottom of a stagnant pond.

He was waiting, I think, for me to cross that space and take him in my arms again—waiting, as one waits at a deathbed for the miracle one dare not disbelieve, which will not happen.

I hoped to burn out, through Hella, my image of Giovanni and the reality of his touch—I hoped to drive out fire with fire.

It was as though I were yelling up to Heaven and Heaven would not hear me. And if Heaven would not hear me- to wash me, to make me clean- then utter disaster was my portion.

I am nothing to you, nothing, and you bring me fever but no delight.

I wanted to say so many things. Yet when I opened my mouth, I made no sound. And yet - I do not know what I felt for Giovanni. I felt nothing for Giovanni, I felt terror and pity and a rising lust.

dreamed of the touch of hands, of Giovanni's hands, or anybody's hands, hands which would have the power to crush me and make me whole again.

Somebody,' said Jacques, 'your father or mind, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour —and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it

I never wish to make love again with anything more than the body.

His face looked as though it were plunging into water. I couldn't touch him. I wanted so to touch him. ... But he was far away from me now, all by himself. I waited for him to come back.

I walked over to her and put my head on her breast. I wanted to lie there, hidden and still.

Somebody," said Jacques, "your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour—and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it.

his eyes, behind his glasses, were like the eyes of a dying man who looks everywhere for healing.

And the brief corner of the sky seems to be shrieking, though he does not hear a sound.

If I could make you stay, I would," he shouted. "If I had to beat you, chain you, starve you—if I could make you stay, I would." He turned back into the room; the wind blew his hair. He shook his finger at me, grotesquely playful. "One day, perhaps, you will wish I had.

I have never reached you, said Giovanni. You have never really been here.

Me, I want to escape,' he had told me, 'Je veux m'evader--this dirty world, this dirty body. I never wish to make love again with anything more than the body.

I ask of literature precisely those things of which I feel the lack in my own life.

That's what makes death so hard—unsatisfied curiosity. —BERYL MARKHAM, West with the Night1

A man searching for paradise lost can seem a fool to those who never sought the other world.

I didn't care who we were. I required no consummation. I knew that whoever we were and whatever we had would never stop.

Your death defines my life. I want to find the love we never had and explicate it in your name. I want to take your secrets public. I want to burn down the distance between us. I want to give you breath.

All dressed up and no one to kill.