Quotes About Love

Apparently, something can happen inside someone you love—it can just happen somehow—and like magic she thinks that she's had enough, and that the way the two of you have been for a really long time is no longer worth the effort. Does that sound familiar to anyone.

Because the truth is, the world will probably whittle your daughter down. But a mother never should.

But it had no doubt sprung from true emotion, for all that parents ever wanted, really, was for you to love their child the way they did.

No, not just the visual. There's the emotional part too. There's that line Faulkner said, about how you don't love because. You love despite.

Even if you yourself were unhappy and anxious, whenever you glimpsed happiness in your child, you suddenly became happy too.

Everyone simply had to wait patiently in order to lose the people they loved one by one, all the while acting as if they weren't waiting for that at all.

She knew what it was like to miss someone, for she missed Cory so continually and pressingly that the feeling was like its own shattering bass vibrating through her, and he was only 110 miles away at Princeton, not across the world.

Love is when you feel, like, oh, oh, my heart hurts...Or like when you see a dog and you feel like you have to touch its head.

She missed his young, vulnerable, ownable self. You never knew when you were lifting your child for the last time; it might seem like just a regular time, when it was taking place, but later, looking back, it would turn out to have been the last.

To commit to actual things composed of wood and metal and fabric was to make real the vagueness and unreality of love.

He couldn't tell her that what we wanted now, more than anything, was to fall asleep beside her. No touching, no kissing, no stimulation. No sensation, no consciousness. Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.

The love between a brother and sister just over a year apart in age held fast. It wasn't twinship, and it wasn't romance, but it was more like a passionate loyalty to a dying brand.

Part of the beauty of love was that you didn't need to explain it to anyone else. You could refuse to explain.

A child just wants to love her parents and to be loved, and it seems like it should be simple to do that, but sometimes it's not.

I've decided that there should be a national holiday once a year, when grown children have to let their parents tuck them in one more time.

Part of the beauty of love was that you didn't need to explain it to anyone else. You could refuse to explain. With love, apparently you didn't necessarily feel the need to explain anything at all.

Our relationship was like one of those YouTube videos of a flower frowning in speeded-up motion. All of the sudden we were in love.

When women got into positions of power, they calibrated and recalibrated tenderness and strength, modulating and correcting. Power and love didn't often live side by side. If one came in, the other might go.

Marriage, I don't think, is like that. It's something else. It's a thing in which you get to see your closest friend become more of who she already is.

She had seen that look on the faces of lovers in restaurants, on the secret: a secret, meaningful glance exchanged between two people. There seemed to be a conspiracy of passion in the world.

for all that parents ever wanted, really, was for you to love their child the way they did.

Sadness, excitement, then sadness again; it all rose and fell like the sounds of skaters scuffing the floor of the rink. Hold tight! she thought, conveying this to both herself and Cory, thinking of them in bed together, and the joint effort couples had to make to be a couple, and stay a couple. If one let go, then that was it, both of them fell. Hold tight! she thought, imagining his body, and her own much smaller body against it.

Love transcended breath, eczema, fear of sex, and an imbalance in physical appearance. If love was real, then these bodily, human details could seem insignificant.

Love was a fish factory—love, with all its murk and stink. You had to really love someone to live with him or her in close quarters.