Quotes About Love

Life can't ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.

Life can't ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.

I cannot be certain what I would have said. I knew that there was something sad and faintly distasteful about love's ending, particularly love that has never been fully realised. I might have hinted at that, but I doubt it. In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things. short story Sister Imelda

I had not the heart to tell her that great love stories told of the pain and separateness between men and women.

But we want young men. Romance. Love and things, I said, despondently.

I would not leave a mother alone in her plight. They described how she had kept the news of my brother's death from our ailing father and on the evening that he was brought home, chapel bells rang out and kept ringing in honor of him, his valor, and my father kept asking if it was a bishop or something that was visiting the parish, not knowing that it was his own son.

But we want young men. Romance. Love and things,' I said, despondently.

Gabriel, the man she might have tied the knot with except that it was not meant to be. Putting memories to sleep, like putting an animal down.

She had always thought that people who had once loved one another kept the faintest trace of it in their being, but not him. He was free of her. Marked of course, but free in a way that she was not. She was still joined by fear, by sexual necessity, by what she knew as love.

Only fools think that men and women love differently. Fools and pedagogues. I tell you, the love of men for women is just as heartbreaking, just as muddled, just as bewildering, and in the end, just as unfinished.

She had eloped in a trance, in haste, her docility a mask, a thousand hers revolting within herself and toward him. Yet coexisting with her flounder was the hope that one evening he would call her into his study and they would talk openly, talk of the things that had kept them apart and from their candor there would be born a real love, a lasting love that they had both envisaged.   The news of her pregnancy elated him.

Mr Berry: We are not childhood sweethearts, we are not in the first flush of youth, we are not Romeo and Juliet. Mrs Berry: No ... we are the warring what's-their-names families of Romeo and Juliet.

pouring her troubles out in order for her daughter to know the deep things, the wounds she had to bear:

I wish you'd come for six months. I seem to have got a big burst of energy writing this whereas sometimes I haven't enough strength to hold pen or pencil. You will find that one day as you get older. I worry about you and your traveling to the different places. Nowhere is safe now. My undying love to you.

remember love is all bull, the only true love is that between mother and child.

We have a gray stone house with stone slates on the roof and wooden beams inside, and whitewashed bumpety walls and pots for flowers everywhere; the boards creak and he loves me, and there is something about having a child and being in a valley, and being loved, that is more marvelous than anything you or I ever knew about in our flittery days.

Michael, my darling light. Be sure to have Masses said for the repose of his soul and for us. Your loving mother, Bridget

her untimely death. Death for her meant death for us both.

I cannot be certain what I would have said. I knew that there was something sad and faintly distasteful about love's ending, particularly love that has never been fully realised. I might have hinted at that, but I doubt it. In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things. Edna O'Brien, short story Sister Imelda, in Returning.

Pero, en estos tiempos, es como si el mundo desapareciera cada día. De vez en cuando es un tiempo que no existe. Es inútil apostar por él. Durante más de dos años yo aposté, con cuerpo de perdida y dignidad de caballero, por un tiempo inexistente. No me quejo. No me arrepiento. Puse algo de dinero. Un gramo de locura. Un montón de afecto. Quizás amor. - Nazdrave! Afortunadamente, el amor ya no es lo que era.

Ya sé que Antonio Machín lo hizo antes pero no tengo más remedio que preguntártelo: ¿cómo se pueden tener dos amores a la vez y no estar loco? - Facilísimo: estando loca.

Qué dices? Y dijo: —Que querría tener otra vida para vivirla contigo. Otra vida para vivirla conmigo. Eso querría. Eso dijo.

To all of you who have made my being alive so wonderful, so exciting and so full, my thanks and all my love.

You shouldn't be too hard with little boys. You should treat them as precious, because that's what they are. —James Harker