Quotes About Friendship

The sweetness and generosity and politeness and gentleness and humanity of the French had shown me how lovely life can be if one takes time to be friendly.

We hit it off immediately, especially Helene, who was a 'swallow-life-in-big-gulps' kind of person.

But how nice it is that one can come to know someone just through correspondence, and become really passionate friends.

Remember, 'No one's more important than people'!" In other words, friendship is the most important thing—not career or housework, or one's fatigue—and it needs to be tended and nurtured.

To think that we might easily have gone through life not knowing each other, missing all this free flow of love and ideas and warmth and sharing...

So there was a martini- something he hadn't tasted since college- and there was wine, and there was a dinner most remarkable for a meal produced at a camp: smoked mussels (gathered and smoked right there on the island, he learned), ratatouille, a salad with pears and blue cheese, and a three-layer chocolate cake with whipped cream and cherries, all of it made by Greenie's mother, who would not accept a bit of help.

I guess that's how well you know me. You think I like hearing this news." "I'm sorry. This is selfish. I just need to tell someone … outside my life. Get it out of my head, to keep from going nuts, but somewhere safe." She sees me as safe? This brings tears to my eyes. "I trust you, Clem. Are you pissed?

I can't believe you just did that,' Charlie marvelled. 'You've broken more college rules in five minutes than I've managed in a month.

Melletin jumped up on a barrel beside Ramil. Brigardians, are you with the Dark Prince? Aye! shouted his countrymen. What about you other men? Ramil asked, looking across the crowd of faces drawn from all parts of the Empire. The slave who had challenged him took one look at Yelena, then raised his hand. I'm in. It seems you might know what you're doing after all. Ramil grinned. I can't promise that--but I can promise that I'll buy you a drink if we're still alive by the end of tomorrow!

You've always tried to pretend you don't need anyone, Tash, but you do. We all do. So just let me be there for you. -Sophie

He thought of trying to explain something he had recently noticed about himself: that if anyone insulted him, or one of his friends, he didn't really mind--or not much, anyway. Whereas if anyone insulted a novel, a story, a poem that he loved, something visceral and volcanic occurred within him. He wasn't sure what this might mean--except perhaps that he had got life and art mixed up, back to front, upside down.

The companionship of dead writers is a wonderful form of live friendship.

I would have to go back into my past and deal with Adrian. My philosopher friend, who gazed on life and decided that any responsible, thinking individual should have the right to reject this gift that had never been asked for - and whose noble gesture re-emphasised with each passing decade the compromise and littleness that most lives consist of. 'Most lives': my life.

And this is where the Silent Ones cause further offense. They do not understand (how could they?) that they have a new function in your life. You need your friends not just as friends, but also as corroborators. The chief witness to what has been your life is now silenced, and retrospective doubt is inevitable.

Like what? The things Literature was all about: love, sex, morality, friendship, happiness, suffering, betrayal, adultery, good and evil, heroes and villains, guilt and innocence, ambition, power, justice, revolution, war, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, the individual against society, success and failure, murder, suicide, death, God. And barn owls.

But he would never join their number, never be a member of the smiling retinue of former lovers. He considered that sort of behavior rather beastly, in fact immoral. He refused to be turned from a lover into a dear friend. He was uninterested in that transition.

On our behalf they dreaded the closeness of adolescent friendship, the predatory behaviour of strangers on trains, the lure of the wrong kind of girl. How far their anxieties outran our experience.

Then I thought about Adrian. My old friend who had killed himself. And this had been the last communication he had ever received from me. A libel on his character and an attempt to destroy the first and last love affair of his life. And when I had written that time would tell, I had underestimated, or rather miscalculated: time was telling not against them, it was telling against me.

She knew me better than anyone else in the world. And still wanted to have lunch with me. And let me go on and on about myself.

This was one of the differences between the three of us and our new friend, We were essentially taking the piss, except when we were serious. He was essentially serious, except when he was taking the piss. It took us a while to work this out.

I began to feel a more general remorse – a feeling somewhere between self-pity and self-hatred – about my whole life. All of it. I had lost the friends of my youth. I had lost the love of my wife. I had abandoned the ambitions I had entertained. I had wanted life not to bother me too much, and had succeeded – and how pitiful that was.

was my closest friend, and continued so for many years. He was the gentlest of us, the most thoughtful, the one who put most trust in others. And—perhaps because of these very qualities—he was the one who had most trouble with girls and, later, women. Was there something about his softness, and his inclination to forgive, which almost provoked bad behaviour in others? I wish I knew the answer to that, not least because of the time I let him down badly. I

nowadays, in the digital landscape, friends and followers have come to mean different, watered-down things. Many people know one another without knowing them at all. And are happy with that superficiality.

At the end of my first year at university, I was at home for three months, visibly and unrepentantly bored. Those of the same age today will find it hard to imagine the laboriousness of communication back then. Most of my friends were far-flung, and—by some unexpressed but clear parental mandate—use of the telephone was discouraged. A letter, and then a letter in reply. It was all slow-paced, and lonely.