Quotes About Love

But my quarrel with the concept of maternal instinct isn't why I never had kids myself. I was never particularly opposed to the idea of having kids—let no one say that I don't love kids! It always seemed like an interesting future possibility, the same way that joining the Peace Corps someday seemed like an interesting future possibility.

Using love to escape love, groping for love outside the home - it's kind of like smoking and wearing a nicotine patch at the same time: two delivery systems for an addictive chemical substance that feels vitally necessary to your well-being at the moment, even if likely to wreak unknown havoc in the deepest fibers of your being at some unspecified future date.

Love is also a way of forgetting what the question is. Using love to escape love, groping for love outside the home - it's kind of like smoking and wearing a nicotine patch at the same time: two delivery systems for an addictive chemical substance that feels vitally necessary to your well-being at the moment, even if likely to wreak unknown havoc in the deepest fibers of your being at some unspecified future date.

Love is also a way of forgetting what the question is. Using love to escape love, groping for love outside the home to assuage the letdowns of love at home - it's kind of like smoking and wearing a nicotine patch at the same time: two delivery systems for an addictive chemical substance that feels vitally necessary to your well-being at the moment, even if likely to wreak unknown havoc in the deepest fibers of your being at some unspecified future date.

No one in the world loved you quite the way a younger sibling did.

No one at fifteen was ever in love, outside of Romeo and Juliet, and maybe not even them. Old Giff used to argue that the star-crossed lovers simply were buzzed on the fumes of forbidden lust. Give them thirty years of togetherness, Old Giff always said, and Juliet would be plunging the dagger into Romeo.

Heloise long ago reconciled herself to the idea that all is fair in love and war, which is just another way of saying that nothing in life is ever fair, because life is love and war.

See that's it. You can't try to love somebody. You just do it.

I know you aren't speaking to me for some reason, but I care about you so much that I'll come here where I know I'll get spit on and abused, and I'll sit on that cold floor just to be near you!

But wasn't that love? Seeing what no one else could?

Love the people who love you back.

Thinking that you can't protect the ones you love, you have to hope they're smart enough to save themselves.

I wanted you to choose this. To choose me. But it isn't always possible for two people to want the same thing. I want you, and that will have to be enough for both of us.

I have found that people never love the way they say they do. They can't. They are just people. Full of lies and sentiment and fear.

Propose a theory to explain one of there eternal mysteries: Mona Lisa's smile, crop circles, or Velveeta. Here is a theory of love: you find a sister, you gain a brother; you lose a sister, you lose a brother; you lose a cat, you find a girl, you kiss a girl, you find the cat, you hope that there is nothing left to lose, and all there is, is there to find.

You will see the world. You will have love affairs with boys who see past a pretty face. You will be strong. You will call and tell me about it.

Everyone loves a villain. Or maybe not a villain, exactly, but someone you can point out and say, I might be weird, but I'm not weird like her.

Sex isn't good unless it means something. It doesn't necessarily need to mean love and it doesn't necessarily need to happen in a relationship, but it does need to mean intimacy and connection...There exists a very fine line between being sexually liberated and being sexually used.

At Cornell she had discovered that domesticity had a brain; here, in the beloved, safe home that was entirely hers, she was learning that it had a heart.

Passenger to Frankfurt ends with an affirmation in 'hope', 'faith' and 'benevolence'. So Agatha would have been shocked and grieved by the twenty-first century. She would have mourned the town in which she had dreamed, loved, run up hills with Tony the dog, lost her virginity to Archie Christie, become a writer. Above all she would have been saddened by the new English joylessness, for life to her was a sacred gift.

God in Heaven listen to me, Listen to my whisper'd prayer Make me worthy, though so lowly, All his love and life to share.

I am sure there is more to know Something to love Something to dream of Something to make And with that you can walk You can walk in the wood In the cool of the eve And when God walks beside you You are not afraid

The men of her family – Frederick, Monty – were lovable and weak. The women could see life for what it was and bear it.

Agatha, I don't love you merely with the glorious eyes of the blind, but I see you as you are.