Quotes About Love

I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, but I love you," I repeated. I wanted her to accept my apology and then we could kiss and get married. "You love me now?" she asked, straight-faced, turning so she was flat toward me, her hands tucked into the armpits of her sweatshirt. "I love you now." I tried to be clear, unafraid, unconflicted. "Tomorrow?" "I want to marry you," I said. There was a giant pause. We looked at each other.

She and I were giving each other the only thing we truly have to offer: our time. We were going to give each other the living minutes of our life.

Walt, examining Chris's record collection, said, "You have four different recordings of Carousel." "It's my favorite thing on earth." "Is that because it says that people die but true love lasts forever?" "I … Maybe. I thought I just liked the music." To Tom, behind Walt's back, she mouthed, "How'd he get so smart?

I know that those who hate have good reason to do so. But why should we always have to choose the cheapest and easiest way? It has been brought home forcibly to me here how every atom of hatred added to the world makes it an even more inhospitable place.

And perhaps it didn't matter to them, not always, what they read aloud; it was the breath of life flowing between them, and the words of the moment riding on it that held them in delight. Between some two people every word is beautiful, or might as well be beautiful.

For her life, any life, she had to believe, was nothing but the continuity of its love.

For the source of the short story is usually lyrical. And all writers speak from, and speak to, emotions eternally the same in all of us: love, pity, terror do not show favorites or leave any of us out.

He loved happiness like I love tea.

For there is hate as well as love, she supposed, in the coming together and continuing of our lives.

But the guilt of outliving those you love is justly to be borne, she thought. Outliving is something we do to them. The fantasies of dying could be no stranger than the fantasies of living. Surviving is perhaps the strangest fantasy of them all.

A little girl lay flung back in her mother's lap as though sleep had struck her with a blow.

When, sometime later, Laurel asked about the bell, her mother replied calmly that how good a bell was depended on the distance away your children had gone.

Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them - with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. ...I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them...

If reality is what looms, love is what pervades...

I have been told, both in approval and in accusation, that I seem to love all my characters.

For every book here she had heard their voices, father's and mother's. And perhaps it didn't matter to them, not always, what they read aloud; it was the breath of life flowing between them, and the words of the moment riding on it that held them in delight. Between some two people every word is beautiful, or might as well be beautiful.

Mas a culpa por sobrevivermos àqueles que amamos, é justo que a carreguemos, pensava ela. Sobreviver-lhes é uma desconsideração que lhes fazemos.

She (my mother) stood always prepared in herself to challenge the world in our place. She did indeed tend to make the world look dangerous, and so it had been to her. A way had to be found around her love sometimes, without challenging that, and at the same time cherishing it in its unassailable strength. Each of us children did, sooner or later, in part at least, solve this in different, respectful, complicated ways.

It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them -- with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself.

He was like a young, undriven, unfalsifying, unvindictive Fay. So Fay might have appeared, just at the beginning, to her aging father, with his slipping eyesight.

He seemed to give the changes his same, kind recognition--to accept them because they had to be only of the time being, even to love them, even to laugh sometimes at their absurdity

FIRE CHIEF: Life is very simple, really. [To the Smiths:] Go on and kiss each other.

Sa Majesté, la reine Marie, seconde épouse du Roi, première dans son coeur

My boy! It's really true, you really love hashed brown potatoes? You make me so happy. JACK [without conviction]: Yes, I like them, I adore them!