Quotes About Connection

What belonged to you once, will always belong to you. Be grateful if you have walked through the world with another's heart in your hand.

How Much Do I Love You? I love you more than pancakes, more than ice cream, more than pickles, more than my life. I love you more than dogs or cats or diamonds or gold, more than anyone else in the world. I loved brushing your hair every night and walking you to school. I told you every story you knew.

If love could tie you to a place from which you never wished to roam then wouldn't it be sensible to suppose that after death it might also tie the atoms that made you to that very same place?

Then I understood that when someone begins to tell you her story, you are entwined together.

Why should you not speak to me / And why should I not speak to you?

If you are loved, you never lose the person who loved you. You carry them with you all your

When a man I like touches my arm or my hair, I want to know if he'll touch the center of me, and whatever I learned in school--I went to school for a long time--I seem to believe that my center can be reached best with the tip of a penis....

She could recognize the change in the air when anybody in her family, anywhere in the house, began to read. The air was roomier, because the reader was elsewhere.

The owner's wife gave me a container of chicken soup and a quart of rice pudding to take home. She was a broad, solid woman with thick arms and legs. She swiped vigorously at the stain on my coat with a wad of dampened paper towel, and I remembered Pegeen then: There's always someone nice.

He could have left out the fact that one had but a few hours to live, while the other had another life entirely still before him. This one. With her arms around her

Thanks so much for this," she said as he pulled to the curb. She put the strap of her pocketbook over her arm, put her hand on the door handle. "You really didn't have to." He seemed to rouse himself from a growing disengagement. "I wanted to," he said. "It was nice to have a chance to get to know you better," he

He leaned toward her, slowly raising his hand to his hat and then doffing it quickly, as if taken by surprise, when she leaned forward to meet him. And this, she thought, of course, was what the whole evening had been for, the delightful feel of his rough cheek against her fingertips, his hands and lips and warm breath. The lingering taste of coffee in his mouth. Something

trimmed border of his hair. All that trying to be charming and trying to be demure and hoping to look attentive and to speak well and wondering how this strange impulse of his will come to a conclusion put aside now that they had agreed, finally, that this, after all, was simply what they'd wanted. The warmth of it, the moment's respite.

Mary Keane watched her daughter and felt as well the punch and turn of the baby not yet born and saw the similarity of the mystery of them both—the baby unseen, moving an elbow or a foot, the means to an end all its own, unfathomable; her daughter with the unseen life playing like reflected light over her face, her lips moving in a conversation forever unheard.

She had an image of her unborn child, its head up under her heart, its ear pressed to the wall of her flesh, treading water with the flutter of its small legs, listening. It would hear the echo of the waves, the whistle of the wind, the rise and fall of its father's breath as his lips opened and touched closed. Mary Keane was more than certain (she would have

The story she then told was as all attempts at sympathy are: an effort to match in form and size and detail what another has known: to hold one experience next to another the way lovers and children match fingers and hands, as if these two, side by side, are linked by their likeness, are both identical and unique.

it—and he peered around at her from under its brim as if from under the rock of another life.

There was the ache in his heart, and now over his shoulder and down his arm, as

leaning over her stomach, over the baby's feet that were now—little acrobat—pressing themselves up against her breasts. She leaned over the curve of its back and spine as they pressed themselves into her stomach and bladder, leaned over the head that was now pressing itself down toward the worn upholstery of the old car, sensing, perhaps, that its watery world was a tributary after all, not a pool. She

Where are you headed, George?" she asked him. He shouted something unintelligible into the wind. "Have you eaten yet?" she

Her husband put his arm across the back of the seat. "Everybody set to go?" he said. He had been too harsh with Michael, too derisive of Jacob, and who knew what his daughter needed, looking up at him, the bear in her arms. "I'm ready," she said, primly, the first to respond. The apple of his eye.

Theoretically, I can imagine that someday we will regard or children not add creatures to manipulate or to change but rather as messengers from a world we once deeply knew, but which we have long since forgotten, who can reveal to us more about the true secrets of life, and also our own lives, than our parents were ever able to.

These people have all developed the art of not experiencing feelings, for a child can experience her feelings only when there is somebody there who accepts her fully, understands her, and supports her. If

You can drive the devil out of your garden but you will find him again in the garden of your son.