Quotes About Love

Boris shrugged. "Who cares? If he is good to you? None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?

Her death the dividing mark: Before and After. And though it's a bleak thing to admit all these years later, still I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary—I

I forgave him, a hundred times over, and never on the basis of anything more than this: a look, a gesture, a certain tilt of his head.

Go see him again why don't you, said Bunny, take him some flowers and tell him you love Plato and he'll be eating out of your hand.

I thought she was going to say, because I don't love you, which probably would have been more or less the truth, but instead, to my surprise, she said: Because I love Henry. Henry's dead. I can't help it. I still love him. I loved him, too, I said. For just a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away. I know you did, she said. But it's not enough.

But – just when I've managed to harden my heart, he'll turn around and be so sweet. I always fall for it. I don't know why.

I'm not blaming anything on your mom, I'm way past that. It's just that she loved you so much, I always felt like kind of an interloper with you guys. Stranger-in-my-own-house kind of thing. You two were so close—" he laughed, sadly—"there wasn't much room for three.

Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you

I have to say I personally have never drawn such a sharp line between 'good' and 'bad' as you. For me: that line is often false. The two are never disconnected. One can't exist without the other. As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how.

Here is my experience. Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you

love more binding than physical affection, some tar-pit of the soul where I might flop around and malinger for years.

It exists; and it keeps on existing. And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.

I personally have never drawn such a sharp line between 'good' and 'bad' as you. For me: that line is often false. The two are never disconnected. One can't exist without the other. As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how.

Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

Because I love Henry. Henry's dead. I can't help it. I still love him.

and though it's a bleak thing to admit all these years later, still I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did.

And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn't touch.

and my love for her was really just that pure, as simple and steady as the moon.

And the flavor of Pippa's kiss- bittersweet and strange- stayed with me all the way back uptown, swaying and sleepy as I sailed home on the bus, melting with sorrow and loveliness, a starry ache that lifted me up above the windswept city like a kite: my head in the rainclouds, my heart in the sky.

I've come to believe that there's no truth beyond illusion. Because, between 'reality' on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, there's a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic. And—I would argue as well—all love.

Regardless of what Julian felt for me, there was no denying that what I felt for him was love and trust of a very genuine sort. As my own parents had distanced themselves from me more and more - a retreat they had been in the process of effecting for many years - it was Julian who had grown to be the sole figure of paternal benevolence in my life, or, indeed, of benevolence of any sort. To me, he seemed my only protector in the world.

When I disagreed—strenuously—and asked what was wrong with focusing one's entire attention on only two things, if those two things were Art and Beauty, Laforgue replied: "There is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty—unless she is wed to something more meaningful—is always superficial.

I wanted her to know just how much I loved her while also letting her know that she bore not one particle of blame for not loving me back.

I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you." How