Quotes About Love

You never see the ones who really love you and help you; you're always involved with strangers.

The tragedy in his life already existed. To love an atmospheric spirit. That was the real sorrow. Hopelessness itself. Nowhere on the printed page, nowhere in the annals of man, would her name appear: no local habitation, no name. There are girls like that, he thought, and those you love most, the ones where there is no hope because it has eluded you at the very moment you close your hands around it.

A szeretet nem csak annyi, hogy birtokolni akarod a másikat, mint egy tárgyat, amit megláttál a boltban. Az csak vágy. Azt akarod, hogy hazavihesd, elhelyezed a lakásban, akár egy lámpát. A szeretet... olyan, mint amikor az apa kimenti a gyerekét az égÅ' házból, és közben maga hal meg. Amikor szeretsz valakit, megsz?nsz magadért élni, a másikért élsz.

Era come se avessi tremato per tutta la vita, a causa di una cronica corrente sotterranea di paura. Tremare, scappare, finire nei guai, perdere le persone che amavo. Come un personaggio dei cartoni animati invece di una persona, mi resi conto. Un cartone animato degli anni Trenta, ammuffito. Dietro a tutto quello che avevo fatto c'era sempre stata la paura di spingermi.

But look at the aspirations of that rabbit and look at his failing. A little life trying. And all the time it was hopeless. But the rabbit didn't know that. Or maybe did know and kept trying anyhow. But I think he didn't understand. He just wanted to do it so badly. It was his whole life, because he loved the cats.

I hope I never get in a fix like that, Taubman said. Hating someone I once loved.

She took his hand, squeezed it, held it, and then, all at once, she let it drop. But the actual touch of her lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away.

terms of those who loved her. She paid back their love with—well, with what? Malice? Not proven. Hate? Not proven. With the irrational? Yes; proven. In terms of the effect on her friends—such as Fat—no lucid purpose was served but purpose there was: purpose without purpose, if you can conceive of that. Her motive was no motive. We're talking about nihilism. Under everything else, even under death itself

to have watched a human being you loved deeply, that you had gotten real close to, held and slept with and kissed and worried about and befriended and most of all admired—to see that warm living person burn out from the inside, burn from the heart outward. Until it clicked and clacked like an insect, repeating one sentence again and again. A recording. A closed loop of tape.

Si es amor por una mujer o una imitación androide, es sexo. Despierte y cuestióneselo, Deckard. Quería acostarse con un androide femenino, nada más y nada menos.

Hell,' I said, 'love is an American cult. We take it too seriously; it's practically a national religion.

he still never saw her as anything but a direct, literal invitation of God's, dropped into his life for reasons he would never know.

Oh no, she said, still smiling; her eyes poured over with light, that of compassion. She understood how he felt, that this was not an impulse only. But the answer was still no, and, he knew, it would always

she had it—his soul—and she was turning it over and over on her tongue. Goddam her!

That goat," Rachael said. "You love the goat more than me. More than you love your wife, probably. First the goat, then your wife, then last of all—" She laughed merrily. "What can you do but laugh?

Right on," he said mechanically. And then it flashed on him what Donna had said—asking him to take her out. "Alll riiiight!" he said, pleased; life flowed back into him. Once again, the little dark-haired chick whom he loved so much had restored him to caring. "Which night?

What about -- not sex -- but love?' 'Love is another name for sex.' 'Like love of country,' Rick said. 'Love of music.

The mind is strange, but it has its reasons. The mind sees in a single glimpse life unlived, hopes unrewarded, emptiness and silence where there should have been noise and love. . . . my mind had the solemn task of rearranging past reality in order that I could go on, and it was not doing a good job.

Aimer un esprit, voilà le véritable martyre. Le désespoir incarné. Le nom de Donna ne serait imprimé sur aucune page, il n'apparaîtrait nulle part dans les annales de l'humanité. Disparue sans laisser d'adresse. Il y a des filles comme ça, et c'est celles-là qu'on aime le plus, celles qui ne permettent pas d'espérer, car elles vous échappent alors même que vous refermer vos bras autour d'elles.

Have you ever made love to an android before?... Remember, though: don't think about it, just do it. Don't pause and be philosophical, because from a philosophical standpoint it's dreary. For us both.

Lo más que puedo pensar en hacer, lo más que puedo hacer en este momento, sería darte un beso. Tal vez en la mejilla, si te parece bien.

Always this barrier, this impossibility of getting through. This time he did not waste his time trying; he simply went on stroking her, thinking, It'll be on my conscience, whatever happens to her. And she knows it, too. So she's absolved of the burden of responsibility, and that, for her, is the worst thing possible. Too bad, he thought, I wasn't able to make love to her.

Oh no, she said, still smiling; her eyes poured over with light, that of compassion. She understood how he felt, that this was not an impulse only. But the answer was still no, and, he knew, it would always be;

You love someone and they leave. They come home one day and start packing their things and you say, "What's happening?" and they say, "I got a better offer someplace else," and there they go, out of your life forever, and after that until you're dead you're carrying around this huge hunk of love with no one to give it to.