Quotes About Love

Mina wanted some of the kind of love Momma gave to her children, where love was the first and deepest thing, and the questions came later and the answers wouldn't matter much measured up against the love.

Mina wanted some of the kind of love Momma gave to her children, wheere love was the first and deepest thing, and the questions came later and the answers wouldn't matter much measured up against the love.

The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.

There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another. This should be made clear to all who contemplate such a union. The avoidance of this pain is the beginning of wisdom, for it is strong enough to contaminate the rest of our lives.

We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.

The dread of lonliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.

A love affair is a grafting operation. "What has once been joined never forgets". There is a moment when the graft takes; up to then it is possible without difficulty the separation which afterwards comes only through breaking off a great hunk of oneself; the ingrown fibre of hours, days, years.

There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another. This should be made clear to all who contemplate such a union.

Both my happiness and unhappiness I owe to the love of pleasure; of sex, travel, reading, conversation (hearing oneself talk), food, drink, cigars and lying in warm water.

When we have ceased to love the stench of the human animal, either in others or in ourselves, then are we condemned to misery, and clear thinking can begin.

We are nothing like the gods. We will never be remembered for the time we attempted the waltz on our balcony, as the stars blinked drowsily, the moon like a frozen yawn. Even with one of us gone, would not the mind of the other reveal its universe, its constellation of memories like a field of flickering candles, the same face at the center of every flame?

There was no love that I could see or feel between the men and the women; only boredom. Yet, paradoxically, I could also tell that this was what everyone wanted: a family structure they could be unhappy in; at least it formed the basis of a stable home, a baseline to a life that would otherwise not be tethered to anything.

I still think too much about the mothers And ask what is man born of woman. He curls himself up and protects his head While he is kicked by heavy boots; on fire and running, He burns with bright flame; a bulldozer sweeps him into a clay pit. Her child. Embracing a teddy bear. Conceived in ecstasy.

Love means to learn to look at yourself the way one looks at distant things for you are only one thing among many.

Love" Love means to learn to look at yourself The way one looks at distant things For you are only one thing among many. And whoever sees that way heals his heart, Without knowing it, from various ills A bird and a tree say to him: Friend. Then he wants to use himself and things So that they stand in the glow of ripeness. It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves: Who serves best doesn't always understand.

May the gentle mountains and the bells of the flocksRemind us of everything we have lost,For we have seen on our way and fallen in loveWith the world that will pass in a twinkling.

The worst possible sexual education: a taboo imposed by the Catholic church plus romantic literature elevating love to unreal heights plus the obscene language of my peers. After all, I was nearly born in the nineteenth century, and I have no tender feelings for it.

Love means to look at yourself/ The way one looks at distant things/ For you are only one thing among many/ And whoever sees that way heals his own heart,/ Without knowing it, from various ills./ A bird and a tree say to him: Friend./ Then he wants to use himself and things/ So that they stand in the glow of ripeness./ It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:/ Who serves best doesn't always understand.

O my love, where are they, where are going The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder. [from Encounter]

Unable to restrain himself, driven by sheer love for the animal, he fired. It was a young one, so slender that what he had taken for a squirrel was not a squirrel but the shimmer of color deposited in its wake. Its body bending and unbending on the moss, it clutched its chest with its tiny paws, at the bloody patch on its little white vest. It didn't know what death was; it was trying to remove it, as if it were a spike on which it had been impaled and around which it could only pivot.

I'm saying it's totally oblivious to how people feel. Take the ocean, for instance. You can love it, but it doesn't love you back. It will suck you under and steal your breath and beauty can make you cry, or that the sound of the tide coming in at night is the best lullaby you ever heard.

I believe especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm-heartedly, everything would come all right. It's all this cold-hearted fucking that is death and idiocy.

Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.

You love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.