Quotes About Yearn

You're always begging things to love you, he said, as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--

Quite frantically, he longed not to be.

Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture.

I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear,' she said, `and live with you here.' `It won't disappear,' he said.

My thoughts Chink against my ribs And roll about like silver hail-stones. I should like to spill them out, And pour them, all shining, Over you. But my heart is shut upon them And holds them straitly. Come, You! and open my heart; That my thoughts torment me no longer, But glitter in your hair.

Nothing remains but desire, and desire comes howling down Elysian Fields like a mistral.

this miserable trick the romantic plays upon himself: of setting just beyond his reach the very thing he prizes.

Mine is a story of craving. Each memory makes me a child again.

All the time, I was telling myself, just enjoy it for what it is, don't be weird, don't get all screwed up over something it isn't. The usual mantra when you're with someone who you're not really with and desperately want to be. Have you noticed how telling yourself all that shit never actually helps?

Is language all about desire? Is desire all about loss? Would we ever need to say anything if we never lost anything? Is everything we ever say just another way to express: I will lose this, I will lose all of this. I will lose you?

We all love X but want to fuck Z. Z is so gleaming, so crystalline, so unlikely to bitch at you for neglecting to take out the recycling. Nobody has to haggle with Z. Z doesn't wear a watch. Z is like a motorcycle with no one on it. Beautiful. Going nowhere.

The time you think you're missing misses you too.

Can you show how you missed me?" The baby placed both hands on her stomach, saying "Miss you here.

Desire is an attempt to fill the void

RUTH: If you take the glass…I'll take you.

There's nothing like this in the world,' you say, knowing I cannot touch your hand and look too, into that godless cleft of sky where nothing turns but dead sands flashing. '--And never to quite understand!

More, Christa. I will always want more. But mainly, I want you to come to me. Not because I might defend you. Not because Camerons always pay their debts. But because you want me. Would that be so very difficult?

I truly missed my parents. I wanted to miss them. It was the only way I could love them, a crazy cocktail of longing and pretending and absence and hope.

Touch me, he thought, my arm, my hand, a finger. Let me know it's all right for me to have these feelings for you.

No less romantically than Rapunzel in her tower pined for rescue did I pine for this idealized being, a kind of alternate me, a me outside of me. A shining one who would somehow at once be my familiar, my deepest intimate, and at the same time exist thrillingly apart.

He went down trying not to look long at her, as though she were the sun, but he saw her, as one sees the sun, without looking.

What am I coming for?" he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. "You know that I have come to be where you are," he said; "I can't help it.

As I think of it, there's an ache in my chest. I cannot control these dreams in which she seems to lie in my future like a whole season of extravagant meals if only I knew how to arrange it.

He was thinking of the girl who would not be a maid and the other who waited for her American lover. He envied them. He would have liked to enter their fairy tale with them, their opera; for it seemed somehow that, despite the sadness, when the curtain fell they would find the youth in them to laugh and go elsewhere. p. 126