Quotes About Love

Funny how you can live your whole life waiting and not know it... Waiting for your real life to begin. Maybe the most real thing the end. To realize when it's too late. I know now that I loved him more than anything on earth or off of it.

It is okay for people you love to leave. For them to come and go. She taught it to me over and over.

There might not be a measure of happiness left in a life, but there could be beauty and grace and endless love.

When her mouth found mine I disassembled. Not exploded like a bomb or anything, but came apart. A few pieces at a time. They floated away, went into a kind of orbit. A splintering galaxy. An extravagant slow motion annihilation. The only center was her mouth, her hair. It was her. A reconstitution around the core of her.

Happiness was not a word that seemed to apply anymore, when she had lost so many close to her. There was a contentment that felt deeper, that acknowledged and accepted the quieter offerings of small joys—of love and occasional peace in a life that was full of pain.

Can you fall in love through a rifle scope?

we can proceed in our lives just as easily from love to love as from loss to loss. A good thing to remember in the middle of the night when you're not sure how you will get through the next three breaths.

Ha. Admit it: you don't have the slightest idea what you are doing, you never ever did. With all the nets in the world, real or unreal. You swam around in a flashing confused school following the tail of the fish in front. Pretty much. Nibbling at whatever passed, in whatever current you swam into. Even the love of your life felt like luck, like she might vanish in the finning crowd at any moment. Which she did.

the craggy gorge reminded me that we can proceed in our lives just as easily from love to love as from loss to loss. A good thing to remember in the middle of the night when you're not sure how you will get through the next three breaths.

Is it possible to love so desperately that life is unbearable? I don't mean unrequited, I mean being in the love. In the midst of it and desperate. Because knowing it will end, because everything does. End.

felt bad but couldn't help myself. It was Jasper, not just. It was all of it. Was this hell? To love like this, to grieve from fifteen feet, an uncrossable distance?

Ren thought she was beautiful; if her features had a purity it was because, he thought, the light that burned inside her was pure.

Ich schließe meine Augen. Was da drinnen los ist. Was da zappelt, was da wie ein blinder Fisch durch den Schmerz schwimmt, für immer und ewig. Was da lebt, was bleibt. Was sich erneuert, die Liebe und den Schmerz lebendig hält. Die Liebe ist das Flussbett, das sich mit Schmerz füllt. Es füllt sich jeden Tag aufs Neue mit Tränen.

I mean it felt my heart might just burst. Bursting is different than breaking. Like there is no way to contain how beautiful.

Is it possible to love by simply not being an ass? I don't think so. But it goes a long way to clearing a space where love can happen.

I can blast Son Seals singing Dear Son until the coyotes in the creek raise up a sympathetic sky ripping interpretation of the harmonica solo. Piercing howls and yelps. Sounds like it's killing them and also like they love it. Which when you get right down to it is the blues.

Was this hell? To love like this, to grieve from fifteen feet, an uncrossable distance?

She reached across, grabbed my hand. I'm not going anywhere, Hig, she said. Where would I go? Lots of places, I thought but I didn't say anything. To the other side for one. Or way way inside. A lot of places someone else can never follow.

Now in her mid-sixties, she had "common-lawed"—her words—old Ansel, who used to manage ranches in California and now spent most of his days rereading the Russians. Chekhov, Turgenev, Pushkin. Ren had once asked him why he loved them, as he himself found the going mostly too dour. "I don't love them," Ansel had said. "You don't?" "Nothing worth serious study is lovable.

broader, a planet with more gravity than it had before. That was part of it. Watch anyone enter their arena of real mastery and you see it, the growing bigger than themselves. Love that.

I know now that I loved him more than anything on earth or off of it.

He would have given his own life gladly to hear her sing to him one more time.

We made love again. This time it was me who asked. Lying there again, on the bed, this time with heat, almost an oven heat, coming through the screen, and sweat instead of tears, I wondered how simple we really are. That we can do the same things again and again and again and find them interesting, even fascinating and seek the repetition with a hunger as avid. How fishing was like that, and painting.

Isn't that strange? To be able to feel so much tenderness for a person, and I did, and powerful attraction, sometimes, and yet feel no love.