Quotes About Love

Even though they fought, their fighting never turned them against each other. It always ended with them embracing and kissing, smiling, laughing.

Don't families stay together?" "Not necessarily," he told me. "Earth ties have less meaning here. Relationships of thought, not blood, are what count.

It was not my pain but Ann's. She was crying, frightened. Because I was hurt. She was afraid for me. I felt her anguish. She was suffering terribly. I tried to will away the shadows but I couldn't. Tried in vain to speak her name. Don't cry, I thought. I'll be all right. Don't be afraid. I love you, Ann. Where are you?

Send her loving thoughts," he told me. "That's all?" "That's quite a lot, Chris," he said. "Thoughts are very real.

They sat there in the evening of the last day. And, though there was no actual point to it, they loved each other.

He forgot everything, time and place; it was just the two of them together, needing each other, survivors of a black terror embracing because they had found each other.

If I could die now, he thought; peacefully, gently, without a tremor or a crying out. If I could be with her. If I could believe I would be with her. His

They were completely devoted to each other. Except for us children, they seemed to have need for no one but each other. Not that they didn't see people. People liked them and wanted to see them, you know that; they were great friends with your Mom and Dad. But togetherness meant more to them than anything.

Why do you want me to stay?" she asked unhappily. He looked at her without a definite answer in his mind. Then he said, "Even if you are infected, I can't let you go out there. You don't know what they'd do to you." Her eyes closed. "I don't care," she said. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "I don't understand it," he told her over supper.

I loved Ann and would help her. Nothing in the depths of Hell would keep me from it.

All without knowing what it was to love and be loved. That was a tragedy more terrible than becoming a vampire.

Adoro tu cuerpo -le dije-.Ni se te ocurra considerarlo otra cosa que no sea perfecto.

Well, why not? My dream woman has always been been unavailable to me. What difference does a mere three-quarters of a century make?

We are meant for one another and none else. I know that to be true. I seem, tonight, to know exactly what love is. (I could play Juliet to perfection at this moment!) It is the key to all hearts and your love has opened mine forever. For me, this world begins and ends with you.

I am wishing of a memory, where you gave me everything you had and where I offered you the pieces that were left of me.

Ahora qué dices si me das tu mano, te llevaré donde he querido llevarte desde que te conocí y no es precisamente a mi cama, es a un sitio donde el placer se vuelve algo secundario y llenarnos de amor es la prioridad por la cual ambos velamos.

Nobody a writer ever loved is dead.

In that weekly ecstatic keeping of faith and bearing of witness, Delia fell in love with singing. Singing was something that might make sense of a person. Singing might make more sense of life than living had to start with.

He will love this music to death. In a few more years, he'll snort at its sentiment and mock its stirring progressions. Once you've loved like that, the only safe haven is resentment.

She takes his shaking hand in the dark. It feels good, like a root must feel, when it finds, after centuries, another root to pleach to underground. There are a hundred thousand species of love, separately invented, each more ingenious than the last, and every one of them keeps making things.

The prose can be brutally beautiful. But the semester starts, you fall in love, get deflowered, watch Kennedy die and the Beatles invade, get high to listen to Coltrane, and discover Heller, Ellison, Ferlighetti, and Bellow -- writing that flows across the page in huge bright swaths that you didn't know English could permit.

We are made for art . . . The moment Maddy took up the tendril phrase, Els knew she was as dear to him as his own life. Talons gripped his ribs, and he felt a joy bordering on panic. He needed to know how this woman would unfold. He needed to write music that would settle into her range like frost on fields. They'd spend their years together, grow old, get sick, die in shared bewilderment.

She knows she'll never see him again in this or any life to come. Yet she sees him wherever she looks. That's life; the dead keep the living alive.

That's the ruling story on this planet. We live suspended between love and ego.