Quotes About Love

If you take two steps towards God," he used to tell me, "God runs to you!

You bring joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it won't be for long.

Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.

He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to the best of his ability. I

Sá»± s?ng ??p ??n m?c cái ch?t Ä'ã ph?i lòng nó

Ageing is not easy, Senhora Castro. It's a terrible, incurable pathology. And great love is another pathology.

On a day when I estimated it was my mothers birthday, I sang 'Happy Birthday' to her out loud.

in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.

To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It

She heard "Hairless Christians", and that is what they were to her for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.

The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessity – it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it...

The sad fact is that there are no natural deaths, despite what doctors say. Every death is felt by someone as a murder, as the unjust taking of a loved being. And even the luckiest of us will encounter at least one murder in our lives: our own. It is our fate. We all live a murder mystery of which we are the victim.

I just want to love God.

Cuesta creer que existe el amor, si no pregúnteselo a cualquier amante. Cuesta creer que existe la vida, si no pregúnteselo a cualquier científico. Cuesta creer que existe Dios, si no pregúnteselo a cualquier creyente. ¿Qué problema tienen con lo que cuesta creer?

We loved our son like the sea loves an island, always surrounding him with our arms, always touching him and crashing upon his shore with our care and concern. When he was gone, the sea had only itself to contemplate.

They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love.

The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessity – it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two or no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud.

And so, when she heard if Hare Krishnas, she didn't hear right. She heard Hairless Christians, and that is what they were to her for many years. When I corrected her, I told her in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.

Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless ineluctably.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him will believeth in anything. - Hitchens 3:16

Do you think it makes people nasty to be loved? You know it doesn't! Then why should it make them nice to be loathed? While you're being persecuted, you hate what's happening to you, you hate the people who are making it happen; you're in a world of hate. Why, you wouldn't recognize love if you met it! You'd suspect love! You'd think there was something behind it—some motive—some trick.

But your book is wrong, Mrs. Strunk, says George, when it tells you that Jim is the substitute I found for a real son, a real kid brother, a real husband, a real wife. Jim wasn't a substitute for anything. And there is no substitute for Jim, if you'll forgive my saying so, anywhere.

They were linked by the usual shared enthusiasms to which lovers give exaggerated importance: a fondness for Vivaldi and the Beatles;

After they became lovers, they would look back on this brink, and admit that each had guessed the other's awareness. Despite past affairs, they were both still young enough for the excitement which springs from sensing that a story has begun whose end can't be foreseen; and they were both old enough to know that life could offer them few if any more such beginnings. Youth was giving them each a last chance, since each had reached youth's outer suburbs.