Quotes About Love

I'll probably think about it all my life: that candlelit circle, a tableau vivant of the daily, commonplace happiness that was lost when I lost her.

And the flavor of Pippa's kiss—bittersweet and strange—stayed with me all the way back uptown, swaying and sleepy as I sailed home on the bus, melting with sorrow and loveliness, a starry ache that lifted me up above the windswept city like a kite: my head in the rainclouds, my heart in the sky.

Her death the dividing mark: Before and After. And though it's a bleak thing to admit all these years later, still I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary

I don't expect you to understand but it's rough to be in love with the wrong person.

is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty—unless she is wed to something more meaningful—is always superficial.

and there she was, turning and smiling at me, at me! and there were way too many people in the theater because it was the seven o'clock show, way more people than I was comfortable with my generalized anxiety and hatred of crowded places and more people trickling in even after the show had started but I didn't care, it could have been a foxhole in the Somme being shelled by the Germans and all that mattered was her next to me in the dark, her arm beside mine.

It was one of the reasons I loved him: for that flattering light in which he saw me, for the person I was when I was with him, for what it was he allowed me to be.

The minister, who took his ecumenical and—some felt—slightly impersonal remarks from Saint Paul's sermon on Love from First Corinthians, talked for about half an hour. ("Didn't you feel that was a very inappropriate text?" said Julian, who had a pagan's gloomy view of death coupled with a horror of the non-specific.)

commonplace happiness that was lost when I lost her.

she really was older, not the glancing-eyed girl I had fallen in love with but no less beautiful for that; beautiful now in a way that less excited my senses that tore at my very heart

how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet -- for me, anyway -- all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary—

I had to say goodbye to her once before, but it took everything I had to say goodbye to her then, again, for the last time, like poor Orpheus turning for a last backwards glance at the ghost of his only love and in the same heartbeat losing her forever: hinc illae lacrimae, hence those tears.

And though it's a bleak thing to admit all these years later, still I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary.

Idolatría! Amar tanto a los objetos puede acabar destruyéndote. Lo que ocurre es que si cuidas algo lo suficiente cobra vida propia. ¿Y no es ese el propósito de los objetos, de las cosas hermosas, ponerte en contacto con una belleza más grande?

is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons. —SCHILLER

And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought for them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.

Ma dopotutto non è sempre l'elemento fuori posto, quello che non funziona alla perfezione, che stranamente finiamo per amare di più?

It could have been a foxhole in the Somme being shelled by the Germans and all that mattered was her next to me in the dark, her arm beside mine.

She really was older, not the glancing-eyed girl I had fallen in love with but no less beautiful for that; beautiful now in a way less excited my senses than tore at my very heart.

still I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary

There is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty — unless she is wed to something more meaningful — is always superficial.

No person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us.

I was relieved that in my unfamiliar babbling-and-wanting-to-talk state I'd stopped myself from blurting the thing on the edge of my tounge, the thing I'd never said, even thouhg it was something we both knew well enough without me saying it out loud to him in the street-which was, of course, I love you.