Quotes About Yearning

I can't sleep,' he said. 'Let me lie with my head on your silver breast.

Nobody's hidden your dress, she said. It's hanging in the press. She lookked at me and said, I don't believe you know how long you've been here, you poor creature. On the contrary, I said, only I know how long Ihave been here. Nights and days, and days and nights, hundreds of them slipping through my fingers. But that does not matter. Time has no meaning. But something you can touch and hold like my red dress, that has meaning. Where is it?

He was still looking steadily at her. His eyes were clear, cool and hard, but something in the depths of them flickered and shifted. She thought: 'He'd take any advantage he could -- fair or unfair. Caddish he is.' Then as she stared back at him she felt a great longing to put her head on his knees and shut her eyes. To stop thinking. Stop the little wheels in her head that worked incessantly. To give in and have a little peace. The unutterably sweet peace of giving in.

With you, I don't want to do bad things.' 'There's always the one that you don't want to do bad things with, isn't there?' 'Yes, there's always the one,' he says. 'I want to lie close to you and feel your arms around me.' — And tell me everything, everything. . . . He has said that bit before.

I had two longings and one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved and I wanted to be always alone

When man don't love you, more you try, more he hate you, man like that. If you love them they treat you bad, if you don't love them they after you night and day bothering your soul case out.

She had meant to tell him: 'I love you. You aren't making any mistake about that, are you?' But all she said was: 'Please will you draw the curtains?

Leila was untouchable. She was in my heart now, and I'd carry her always, on this earth that every day gives men a chance.

I need to feel strongly, to love and admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe.

Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.

I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.

There is no sense in loving someone you can never wake up to except by chance.

She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She's refilled each day with fresh tides of longing.

I fell in love once, if love be that cruelty which takes us straight to the gates of Paradise only to remind us they are closed for ever.

Her butler opened it for her. His name was Boredom. She said, 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything.' He said 'Very good ma'am,' and putting on his white gloves so that fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.

This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

You said, 'I love you.' Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear?

Somewhere between fear and sex passion is.

Not much touches us, but we long to be touched. We lie awake at night willing the darkness to part and show us a vision.

This hole in my heart is in the shape of you. No one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?

I felt like a seed in a pomegranate. Some say that the pomegranate was the real apple of Eve, fruit of the womb, I would eat my way into perdition to taste you.

The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it is immense. We send starships. We fall in love.

You have a dress with a décolletage to emphasise your breasts. I suppose the cleavage is the proper focus but what I wanted to do was to fasten my index finger and thumb at the bolts of your collar bone, push out, spreading the web of my hand until it caught against your throat. You asked me if I wanted to strangle you. No, I wanted to fit you, not just in the obvious ways but in so many indentations.

I dream of flight, not to be as the angels are, but to rise above the smallness of it all. The smallnesss that I am. Against the daily death the iconography of wings.