Quotes About Love

He felt her cold lips touch his eyes, like coins for Charon. After a time he heard her singing... The song was a piece of forever.

Marriage is like death, only happens once.

Daughter-in-law is just a word. Call her anything you like. The hand of good fortune is not fussy about words.

Parents are as confused about by life as anyone else. But they try very hard.

The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.'" "That's lovely," said Roxana. "Shakespeare?" "Pascal.

Sometimes, I love to fight with you… Because, we end up loving each other more.

Holding on to a relationship is like holding sand in your hand! The more tightly you try to grip it, the more quickly it vanishes and more freely you hold it, the longer it stays! So, Relationship = How you hold it?

What love lays bare in me is energy.

Am I in love? - Yes, since I'm waiting. The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.

To whom can I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought... ?

Am I in love? – yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

Like love, mourning affects the world—and the worldly—with unreality, with importunity. I resist the world, I suffer from what it demands of me, from its demands. The world increases my sadness, my dryness, my confusion, my irritation, etc. The world depresses me.

A mandarin fell in love with a courtesan. 'I shall be yours,' she told him, 'when you have spent a hundred nights waiting for me, sitting on a stool, in my garden, beneath my window.' But on the ninety-ninth night, the mandarin stood up, put his stool under his arm, and went away.

It is not true that the more you love, the better you understand; all that the action of love obtains from me is merely this wisdom: that the other is not to be known; his opacity is not the screen around a secret, but. instead, a kind of evidence in which the game of reality and appearance' is done away with. I am then seized with that exaltation of loving someone unknown, someone who will re- main so forever: a mystic impulse: I know what I do not know.

It is my desire I desire, and the loved being is no more than its tool.

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

I transform Work in its analytic meaning (the Work of Mourning, the Dream-Work) into the real Work - of writing.) for: the Work by which (it is said) we emerge from the great crises (love, grief) cannot be liquidated hastily: for me, it is accomplished only in and by writing.

Freud to his fiancée: The only thing that makes me suffer is being in a situation where it is impossible for me to prove my love to you Gide: Everything in her behaviour seemed to say: Since he no longer loves me, nothing matters to me. Now, I still loved her, and in fact I had never loved her so much; but it was no longer possible for me to prove it to her. That was much the worst thing of all

Everything began all over again immediately: arrival of manuscripts, requests, people's stories, each person mercilessly pushing ahead his own little demand (for love, for gratitude): No sooner has she departed than the world deafens me with its continuance.

To be engulfed: outburst of annihilation which affects the amorous subject in despair or fulfillment. At its best, when it's fulfillment, it's a kind of disappearance at will. An easeful death. Death liberated from dying.

The Winter Photograph was my Ariadne, not because it would help me discover a secret thing (monster or treasure), but because it would tell me what constituted that thread which drew me toward Photography. I had understood that henceforth I must interrogate the evidence of Photography, not from the viewpoint of pleasure, but in relation to what we romantically call love and death.

Despite the difficulties of my story, despite discomforts, doubts, despairs, despite impulses to be done with it, I unceasingly affirm love, within myself, as a value.

Il me vient alors cette exaltation d'aimer à fond quelqu'un d'inconnu, et qui le reste à jamais: mouvement mystique: j'accède à la connaissance de l'inconnaissance.

Je t'aime est sans nuances. Il supprime les explications, les aménagements, les degrés, les scrupules.