Quotes About Connection

In singing our song, in telling our story, in inviting you to say 'Hey, listen to me, and i'll listen to you', we're starting a dialogue. And when you do that, this healing happens, and we come out of our corners, and we start to witness each other's common humanity. We start to assert it. And when we do that, really good things happen

I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, but I love you," I repeated. I wanted her to accept my apology and then we could kiss and get married. "You love me now?" she asked, straight-faced, turning so she was flat toward me, her hands tucked into the armpits of her sweatshirt. "I love you now." I tried to be clear, unafraid, unconflicted. "Tomorrow?" "I want to marry you," I said. There was a giant pause. We looked at each other.

She and I were giving each other the only thing we truly have to offer: our time. We were going to give each other the living minutes of our life.

Just now they kissed, with India coming up close on her toes to see if she could tell yet what there was about a kiss.

And perhaps it didn't matter to them, not always, what they read aloud; it was the breath of life flowing between them, and the words of the moment riding on it that held them in delight. Between some two people every word is beautiful, or might as well be beautiful.

For her life, any life, she had to believe, was nothing but the continuity of its love.

Suppose you meet me in the woods.

I don't know whether I could do either one, reading or writing, without the other

For there is hate as well as love, she supposed, in the coming together and continuing of our lives.

Once you're into a story everything seems to apply- what you overhear on a city bus is exactly what your character would say on the page you're writing. Wherever you go, you meet a part of your story. I guess you're tuned in for it, and the right things are sort of magnetized.

To imagine yourself inside another person...is what a story writer does in every piece of work; it is his first step, and his last too, I suppose.

Surely even those immune from the world, for the time being, need the touch of one another, or all is lost.

When, sometime later, Laurel asked about the bell, her mother replied calmly that how good a bell was depended on the distance away your children had gone.

If reality is what looms, love is what pervades...

For every book here she had heard their voices, father's and mother's. And perhaps it didn't matter to them, not always, what they read aloud; it was the breath of life flowing between them, and the words of the moment riding on it that held them in delight. Between some two people every word is beautiful, or might as well be beautiful.

And perhaps it didn't matter to them, not always, what they read aloud; it was the breath of life flowing between them, and the words of the moment riding on it that held them in delight.

My father knew our way mile by mile; by day or by night, he knew where we were. Everything that changed under our eyes, in the flying countryside, was the known world to him, the imagination to me. Each in our own way, we hungered for all this: my father and I were in no other respect or situation so congenial.

Hallo, Fremder, sagte er zu dem zweiten Reisenden. Die Welt ist klein! Lange her, seit unsere Köpfe Seite an Seite auf dem Kissen lagen. Eine Ewigkeit!, rief der andere. Da wusste Clement, dass sie alle einander fremd waren und dass die stürmische Nacht vor ihnen lag.

I knew this, anyway: that my wish, indeed my continuing passion, would be not to point the finger in judgment but to part a curtain, that invisible shadow that falls between people, the veil of indifference to each other's presence, each other's wonder, each other's human plight.

I can't think I had much of a sense of humor as long as I remained the only child. When my brother Edward came along we both became comics, making each other laugh.

If I tell these private thoughts of mine, it is because I know they are not mine alone, and that practically everyone is trying to say the same things and that the writer is only a man who says out loud what other people think or whisper.

FIRE CHIEF: Life is very simple, really. [To the Smiths:] Go on and kiss each other.

Atunci, stimat? doamn?, cred c? nu mai încape nici o îndoial?, ne-am mai v?zut, iar dumneavoastr? sunteÅ£i chiar soÅ£ia mea.

I'll recognize her by the way she's trying to recognize me. Lost memories will guide her.