Quotes About Love

white lilies, the kind you would give to a bride or a corpse.

he said that when the baby was born, if it was a boy, I was to call it Edward." "Edward?" Teddy repeated blankly. "After you." And for the first time in the whole of the war Teddy broke.

It wasn't that Theo believed in religion, or a God, or an afterlife. He just knew it was impossible to feel this much love and for it to end.

Everything was from duty, nothing from love. Duty killed you in the end.

It was the kind of love (lust, to be honest about it) that survivors of disasters must practise – or people who are anticipating disaster – free of all restraint, savage at times and yet strangely tender and affectionate.

I had an idea of him,' Ursula said, 'but the idea wasn't him. Perhaps I wanted to fall in love.

Well, you know, Ruby, people are given the mother they need for a particular incarnation. But then she shrugs helplessly because neither of us can think why we needed Bunty.

and Jackson didn't know then what he knew now - what it was like to love a child, how you would give your own life in a heartbeat to save theirs, how they were more precious than the most precious thing.

She thought of Dr Kellet and Pindar. Become such as you are, having learned what that is. She knew what that was now. She was Ursula Beresford Todd and she was a witness. She opened her arms to the black bat and they flew to each other, embracing the air like long-lost souls. This is love, Ursula thought. And the practice of it makes it perfect.

He never imagined, when his daughter was small and infinitely, eternally lovable, that he would ever develop a combative relationship with her.

Gwendolen was so touched that she wept, but quietly, for her mother would have been monstrously jealous of such emotion. She had claimed grief for her own long ago.

Did he know what love was? The love for a father, a sister, for a dog even, yes, but between a husband and wife? Two lives knitted inextricably together. Or yoked and harnessed. (That's the point, Sylvie said, otherwise we would all run wild.)

As a kid, being with her was easy; it was the nearest to heaven I've ever been.

Because he gets scared, he becomes human. Because, my grandmother said, love makes you human. And the loss of love is pain, is fear, is sadness. The boy's wife had hurt him. Before he had nothing to lose, and now, of course, he did.

It was in this way that my idea of brothers began-that brothers were sweet and needed much saving.

Another gift is Pansy's love. Bathed in that love, Lyle in turn is gentle with other kids, especially with kids uneasy under their bragging, kids really as frightened as rabbits when a hawk darkens their world. Lyle's underweight presence steadies them, and he is sought after—but not exactly as a friend. He is more like Anansi the helpful spider of his favorite tales—a quiet ally who prefers his own company but skitters over to join you when you need him.

As an exercise, can you recall the last time you saw someone whose gender was ambiguous? Was this person attractive to you? And if you knew they called themselves neither a man nor a woman, what would it make you if you're attracted to that person? And if you were to kiss? Make love? What would you be?

I remember one Fourth of July evening in Philadelphia, about a year after my surgery. I was walking home arm in arm with Lisa, my lover at the time, after the fireworks display. We were leaning in to one another, walking like lovers walk. Coming towards us was a family of five: mom, dad, and three teenage boys. Look it's a coupla faggots, said one of the boys. Nah, it's two girls, said another. That's enough outa you, bellowed the father, one of 'em's got to be a man. This is America!

No matter how your world falls apart—and honey, that's what happens: we all build ourselves a world, and then it falls apart—but no matter how that happens, you still have the kind heart you've had since you were a child, and that's what really counts. And I will always be here for you, my butzalah. I love you, Katherine.

Boys are unpredictable. This maybe not be news, but I'm starting to think it's one of the best things about them.

Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.

Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him.

there would be no powerful will binding hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature…And yet she had loved him- sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being.

Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her. Good-by--because I love you. He did not know; he did not understand. He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have understood if she had seen him--but it was too late; the shore was far behind her, and her strength was gone. She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again.