Quotes About Love

Why is it that we lose the things we love, and things cavalier cling to us and will be the measure of our worth after we're gone?

Grief starts to become indulgent, and it doesn't serve anyone, and it's painful. But if you transform it into remembrance, then you're magnifying the person you lost and also giving something of that person to other people, so they can experience something of that person.

When we awoke he greeted me with his crooked smile, and I knew he was my knight.

I love you, I whispered to all, to none. -Love not lightly, I heard him say.

William Burroughs was simultaneously old and young. Part sheriff, part gumshoe. All writer. He had a medicine chest he kept locked, but if you were in pain he would open it. He did not like to see his loved ones suffer. If you were infirm he would feed you. He'd appear at your door with a fish wrapped in newsprint and fry it up. He was inaccessible to a girl but I loved him anyway.

What is the song about? I asked. -Death, he answered with a laugh. But don't worry, nobody dies, it is the death of love.

It was February 14 and I was about to give my heart to a perfect cup of coffee.

I have a lock of his hair, a handful of his ashes, a box of his letters, a goatskin tambourine. And in the folds of faded violet tissue a necklace, two violet plaques etched in Arabic, strung with black and silver threads, given to me by the boy who loved Michelangelo.

The other afternoon, when you fell asleep on my shoulder, I drifted off, too. But before I did, it occurred to me looking around at all of your things and your work and going through years of work in my mind, that of all your work, you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all.

The transformation of a heart is a wondrous thing, no matter how you land there.

He is overcome with the disease of love, the drunkenness of generations past. When are we ourselves, he wonders, trudging through the snow-covered banks, his coat illuminated by moon-light.

Mommy, I said aloud, and I thought of her suddenly stopping what she was doing, often in the center of the kitchen, and invoking her own mother whom she lost when she was eleven years old. How is it that we never completely comprehend our love for someone until they're gone?

I have smoothed the hem of the robe of Parsifal. Watched Giotto's sheep wander from a fresco. Prayed before holy icons unveiled, surviving time. Held shavings swept from the hut of Geppetto. Unzipped a body bag and beheld the face of my brother. Witnessed the acolyte scatter petals over a dying poet. I saw the smoke of incense form the shape of my days. I saw my love return to God. I saw things as they are.

We made quite a crew, all talking at once, contradicting and sparring, a cacophony of affectionate arguing.

Apart, we were able to see with even greater clarity that we didn't want to be without each other. I

I saw him paused before a headstone that read 'Son your mother is praying for you.

How is it that we never completely comprehend our love for someone until they're gone? (P.92)

Nothing seemed more romantic to my young mind. I imagined myself as Frida to Diego, both muse and maker. I dreamed of meeting an artist to love and support and work with side by side.

I knew he didn't love me, but I adored him anyway

to have no need for the apparatus of the operating room to be safe from all bodily harm to know love without exception to be a saint in any form

Saíamos para caminhar à noite. Às vezes conseguíamos enxergar Vênus acima de nós. Era a estrela dos pastores e a estrela do amor.

We waltzed beneath God's point of view knowing no ending to our rendezvous we expressed such sweet vows - My Madrigal

My love for him could not save him. His love for life could not save him. It was the first time that I truly knew he was going to die.

Love is an angel disguised as lust.