Quotes About Friendship

picking up the phone to say hello, somehow I never had. "Are you okay?

That is to say: I wanted to maintain the illusion that their dealings with me were completely straightforward; that we were all friends, and no secrets, though the plain fact of it was that there were plenty of things they didn't let me in on and would not for some time. And though I tried to ignore this I was aware of it all the same.

It was Boris I missed, the whole impulsive mess of him: gloomy, reckless, hot-tempered, appallingly thoughtless. Boris pale and pasty, with his shoplifted apples and his Russian-language novels, gnawed-down fingernails and shoelaces dragging in the dust. Boris—budding alcoholic, fluent curser in four languages—who snatched food from my plate when he felt like it and nodded off drunk on the floor, face red like he'd been slapped.

Then again: there was not exactly a word for Boris and me... It was just about drowsy air-conditioned afternoons, lonely and drunk, blinds closed against the glare, empty sugar packets and dried-up orange peels strewn on the carpet, Dear Prudence from the White Album (which Boris adored) or else the same mournful old Radiohead over and over...

These were good people, common people; the salt of the earth people; people whom i should count myself fortunate to know

At one time I had liked the idea, that the act, at least, had bound us together; we were not ordinary friends, but friends till-death-do-us-part. This thought had been my only comfort in the aftermath of Bunny's death. Now it made me sick, knowing there was no way out. I was stuck with them, with all of them, for good.

Usually we lay around on the grass all afternoon, drinking martinis from a thermos bottle and watching the ants crawl in a glittering black thread on the messy cake plate, until finally the martinis ran out, and the sun went down, and we had to straggle home for dinner in the dark.

But still I was lonely. It was Boris I missed, the whole impulsive mess of him: gloomy, reckless, hot-tempered, appallingly thoughtless.

The idea of living there, of not having to go back ever again to asphalt and shopping malls and modular furniture; of no one marrying or going home or getting a job in a town a thousand miles away or doing any of the traitorous things friends do after college... the idea was so truly heavenly that I'm not sure I thought, even then, it could ever really happen, but I like to believe I did.

Frank," Andy said slowly, "I don't think the hellspawn wants to play checkers with you.

I know a place that serves great falafel." "Falafel?" "No, I don't feel awful." Herb grinned. "I feel pretty good.

Well, your ass doesn't look too bad." "Thanks, Roy. You've got a cute ass yourself." "I meant, I don't think you're gonna bleed to death." Bert laughed. "And just two minutes ago, I was hoping I'd bleed to death." Roy eyed the stake. "I bet. Nasty.

Don't get angry, Porky." Harry grinned.

The Trumans did not reserve fancy entertaining only for the great or near-great. They catered also to their old friends, who had never had an appointment with destiny.

J.C. Greenburg

Never make an intimate friend of anyone who is not a friend of God.

your soul is the one thing worth living for. It is the part of you which ought always be considered first. No place, no employment is good for you, which injures your soul. No friend, no companion deserves your confidence, who makes light of your soul's concerns.

Nothing perhaps affects man's character more than the company he keeps.

There it was, Eve supposed. There was the answer to why people got tangled up with people. Because when you were down, when you were wallowing, someone you mattered to would ask if you were okay.

Another old friend who came to pay his respects [to the recently elected Urban VIII] and collect his reward was Buonarroti, who, like Strozzi, judged the new court guilty of excess. "Music always and always poetry / music and poetry morning and night / music in every time and season." "I would rather hear frogs sing.

You so need to lighten up about that potato-launcher incident," Butch said. Phury rolled his eyes and eased back in the banquette. "You broke my window." "Of course we did. V and I were aiming for it." "Twice." "Thus proving that he and I are outstanding marksmen.

That's you," Wrath said. You shall be called the Black Dagger warrior Dhestroyer, descended of Wrath son of Wrath." "But you'll always be Butch to us," Rhage cut in. "As well as hard-ass. Smart-ass. Royal pain in the ass. You know, whatever the situation calls for. I think as long as there's an ASS in there, it'll be accurate." "How about bASStard?" Z suggested. "Nice. I feel that.

As Qhuinn looked at his best friend's handsome face, he felt as if he'd never not known that red hair, those blue eyes, those lips, that jaw. And it was because of their long history that he searched for something to say, something that would get them back to where they had been. All that came to him was . . . I miss you. I miss you so fucking bad it hurts, but I don't know how to find you even though you're right in front of me.

There you have it! - How they anticipate my wishes, how they grant friendship's little attentions, which are worth a thousand times more than breathtaking presents that merely prove the giver's vanity and humiliate us.