Quotes About Love

These two things, truth and love, Jesus asks for His own, as of vital moment: truth as the badge of distinction between His Church and the world; love as the bond which unites believers of the truth into a holy brotherhood of witness-bearers to the truth.

As He said to Peter in express words, "If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me;" so He says to them all in effect, though not in words,"If ye wash not each other, if ye refuse to serve one another in love, ye have again no part with me." This is a hard saying; for if it be difficult to believe in the humiliation of Christ, it is still more difficult to humble ourselves.

He was in her thoughts – a deep tender sultry garden.

I love her fairy-wise mind.

Poor land, poor land, what do you mean to the heart that moves in me? Poor love, poor love, poor wife of mine, why do you weep so bitterly? (from Retribution book 2, I)

My dearest, tenderest one, I love the star-infused melancholy of your face,

Inside my soul, the spring of love Will not replace the stormy weather.

Without remorse, you calmly thrust your knife Into each heart that shared its love with you.

Your love is like murder.

A man's home is his wife's castle.

La maison d'un homme est le château de son épouse.

Hate is love on fire, set out to burn like a flare on the side of the road. It says, stop here. Something terrible has happened. Envy is like, the skin you're in burns. And the salve is someone else's skin.

He smiles at me, and it is a knock on my chest, as if he had reached out and rapped it. My chest opens, my heart admits him.

And then she leaned back her head with the faintest smile and, tapping her chin, asked, Are you in love with him, this mystery composer? How can I be? I asked in return. I don't even know him. Almost every opera is about this, she said, her smile growing. Love before first sight.

It isn't just that you fall in love with someone—you each allow yourself new identities with each other, new skins, almost like a cocoon to who you'll be next.

Speak to your dead. Write for your dead. Tell them a story. What are you doing with this life? Let them hold you accountable. Let them make you bolder or more modest or louder or more loving, whatever it is, but ask them in, listen, and then write. And when war comes -- and make no mistake, it is already here -- be sure you write for the living too. The ones you love, and the ones who are coming for your life. What will you give them when they get there?

a woman with a lover's impatience with the whole world, a woman who feared when she did not get what she wanted that it meant she was not loved by creation itself; her need for success at seduction was like her need for dinner or breakfast. When

Love is never governed by Reason.

it felt healing to be pressed against him. As if some wound he never knew he had healed itself more each time they touched.

I loved him, in part, for what he might be someday, which is never a good way to love someone. It was in fact a way of rejecting him, a way of rejecting who he is now, and I think in some way we both knew this.

I could stand before him, be in his arms as I was just then, and still be lost to him, some phantom of a desire he cherished more than he cherished me, the woman he claimed to love.

If Chopin's Nocturne in F Minor, op. 55, no. 1 is like looking for a love lost in the darkness, this is the descent into love, in all its richness, mortifications, and subsequent glories.

All thirsts are without explanations, as are all loves.

as lover's complaint was noted, perhaps, by the one who knew to find it, and for the rest of the room, only artistic caprice—the