Quotes About Connection

How sweet to feel its helpless form Depending thus on me alone! And while I hold it safe and warm What bliss to think it is my own! To feel my hand so kindly prest, To know myself beloved at last, To think my heart has found a rest, My life of solitude is past!

The ties that bind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than any one can who has not felt how roughly they may be pulled without breaking.

He had not breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet I had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear him talk as he did talk, and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so spoken to - capable of understanding and duly appreciating such discourse - was enough.

I would rather have your friendship than the love of any other woman in the world.

There is such a thing as looking through a person's eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another's soul in one hour than it might take you a lifetime to discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to understand it.

How does distance look?" is a simple direct question. It extends from a spaceless within to the edge of what can be loved.

Not touching but joined in astonishment as two cuts lie parallel in the same flesh.

There is no person without a world.

I suppose you do love me, in your way," I said to him one night close to dawn when we lay on the narrow bed. "And how else should I love you —in your way?" he asked. I am still thinking about that.

And now time is rushing towards them where they stand side by side with arms touching, immortality on their faces, night at their back.

She stumbled then and Geryon caught her other arm, it was like a handful of autumn. He felt huge and wrong. When is it polite to let go someone's arm after you grab it?

Are there many little boys who think they are a Monster? But in my case I am right said Geryon to the Dog they were sitting on the bluffs The dog regarded him Joyfully

My mother forbad us to walk backwards. That is how the dead walk, she would say. Where did she get this idea? Perhaps from a bad translation. The dead, after all, do not walk backwards but they do walk behind us. They have no lungs and cannot call out but would love for us to turn around. They are victims of love, many of them.

Language is what eases the pain of living with other people, language is what makes the wounds come open again.

We live by waters breaking out of the heart.

some hours later they were down at the railroad tracks standing close together by the switch lights. The huge night moved overhead scattering drops of itself.

When I contemplate the physical spaces that articulate the letters 'I love you' in a written text, I may be led to think about other spaces, for example the space that lies between 'you' in the text and you in my life.

for when I look at you, even for a moment, no speaking is left in me

I have never known a closeness like that (…) I guess it never ends. A brother never ends. I prowl him. He does not end.

Love does not happen without loss of vital self. The lover is the loser. Or so he reckons. But his reckoning involves a

his voice saying, You beauty. I can feel that beauty's heart beating inside mine as she presses into his arms in the high blue room–

Your separateness could kill you unless I take it from you as a sickness.

Aztán megindult feléjük az idÅ', ahogy karjukkal egymáshoz simulva álltak, arcukon a halhatatlanság, hátukban az éjszaka.

Up against another human being one's own procedures take on definition.