Quotes About Love

This is something different again. A feeling of peace. The feeling you get when a recipe turns out perfectly right, a perfectly risen souffle, a flawless sauce hollandaise. It's a feeling which tells me that any woman can be beautiful in the eyes of a man who loves her.

I don't believe God really cares what you eat, or what you wear, or whom you love. I think that if God made the stars, He must have a greater perspective.

At such times I feel I could die for love of her, my little stranger, my heart swelling dangerously so that the only release is to run too, my red coat flapping around my shoulders like wings, my hair a comet's tail in the patchy blue sky.

To be a mother is to live in fear. Fear of death, of sickness, of loss, of accidents, of strangers, of the Black Man, or simply those small everyday things that somehow manage to hurt us most: the look of impatience, the angry word, the missed bedtime story, the forgotten kiss, the terrible moment when a mother ceases to be the center of her daughter's world and becomes

There's also a lot of random stuff about poetry, flowers and lute music, plus kissing and cuddling (lots of this), wearing similar outfits, talking incessantly about the current object of devotion, and generally losing one's faculties.

Most adults assume that the feelings of adolescence don't count, somehow, and that those searing passions of rage and hate and embarrassment and horror and hopeless, abject love are something your grow out of, something hormonal, a practice run for the Real Thing. It wasn't. At 13 *everything* counts; there are sharp edges on everything, and all of them cut.

The serpent eating itself, tail-first. We live to repeat the same mistakes, to push away the ones we love, to move on when we want to stay, to wait in silence when we should speak. In the life we have chosen to lead, loss is the only constant. Loss, that eats up everything – like the snake, even itself.

How can you fly with a stone around your neck? How can you run with a chain on your feet? 'But I love him,' I said. That's the stone. That's the chain, said the hawthorn. And until you can give them back, you will never be free again.

Ho provato una pena improvvisa per mia figlia, che si immagina amici invisibili per popolare lo spazio che la circonda. Egoista pensare che una madre possa riempire completamente quello spazio. Egoista e cieca.

Come to me in love, Love. Come to me in love.

And it is partly the transience of it that delights me; so much loving preparation, so much art and experience, put into a pleasure that can last only a moment, and which only a few will ever fully appreciate.

Think about it for a while. How can you hope to have any friends when you spy on everything they do? How can you enjoy the present when you can see the future? Most of all, how can you love when you know Death lies in waiting?

And if I never have a veil, or a golden ring on my hand, I will still have you, my love, and that will be enough for me. Sleep well, love, and dream of me. And know that, if I were to live for a thousand years, there would still not be enough nights in which to dream of you.

Because art is like love. It goes feral if you keep it to yourself. Art is made to be given away, otherwise, it just rots.

Datemi del romantico, se vi va. Ma io credo nel crimine perfetto. Come il vero amore, è solo questione di tempo e pazienza.

our children are not for us to keep, but to give away.

I dreamt that I was old. And you – you were beside me. Forever young – in your hand, a cup of stars.

L'amore è l'unica costante in questo difficile mondo razionale, l'amore e la sua metà oscura, l'odio.

She handed me one of the finished mendiants . A fat black cherry made for the nose; a candied lemon slice for the mouth. She had made all her chocolates into little faces. Features added in gold leaf; almonds, raisins, poppy seeds. All of the chocolates different, all of them marked with her signature: Love me. Feed me. Free me - And all of the chocolates were smiling.

Love is the thing that only God sees.

If only I had patience. If only I could sleep till spring. If only I were the hawthorn tree, too old to love, too wise to hate.

I know you don't remember her much, Narcisse, but your mother was very strong. Stronger than anyone I've known; strong and sweet as peach liqueur .

There are stories everywhere; in the air; the food you eat; in the embers of the fire. […] This is my story; the story of the land-folk and the seal-folk, a story of love, and of treachery, and of the call of the ocean.

Just for a moment, she thought she smelled something, a strange, vivid scent of sugar and apples and blackberry jelly and smoke. It was a nostalgic scent, and for a second she could almost understand why Jay loved this place so much, with its little vineyards and its apple trees and its roaming goats on the marsh flats.