Quotes About Connection

he couldn't believe how falling love with Martha made things simpler. No, that wasn't the right word, unless 'simpler' also included the sense of richer, denser, more complicated, with focus and echo. Half his brain pulsed with gawping incredulity at his luck; the other half was filled with a sense of long-sought, flaming reality. That was the word: falling in love with Martha made things real.

Insofar as I liked doing things by myself, it was partly for the pleasure of telling her about them afterwards.

What becomes of a chain of argument when the links are made of different metals, each with a separate frangibility?

It would be comforting if love were an energy source which continued to glow after our deaths.

One way of legitimising coincidences, of course, is to call them ironies. That

There is the question of loneliness. But again, this is not how you imagined it (if you had ever tried to imagine it). There are two essential kinds of loneliness: that of not having found someone to love, and that of having been deprived of the one you did love. The first kind is worse.

At a social event she and I would normally have attended together, an acquaintance came up and said to me, simply, "There's someone missing." That felt correct, in both senses.

What did I care about saving the world if the world couldn't, wouldn't, save her?

Then, at some point, sooner or later, for this reason or that, one of them is taken away. And what is taken away is greater than the sum of what was there. This may not be mathematically possible; but it is emotionally possible.

You like this stuff?' she asked neutrally. 'Good to dance to,' I replied, a little defensively. 'Do you dance to it? Here? In your room? By yourself?' 'No, not really.' Though of course I did.

Perhaps Goethe never found the right woman.

He had entered some state of grace—but one that did not exclude. He made you feel you were his co-thinker, even if you said nothing.

Grief, like death, is banal and unique. So, a banal comparison. When you change your make of car, you suddenly notice how many other cars of the same sort there are on the road. They register in a way they never did before. When you are widowed, you suddenly notice all the widows and widowers coming towards you. Before, they had been more or less invisible, and they continue to remain so to the other drivers, to the unwidowed.

But it's still the eyes we look at, isn't it? That's where we found the other person, and find them still.

Sad sex is when you feel you're losing all touch with her, and she with you, but this is the way of telling one another that the connection is still there, somehow; that neither of you is giving up on the other, even if part of you fears that you should. Then you discover that insisting on the connection is the same as prolonging the pain.

He found himself reflecting on questions of honesty. Personal honesty, artistic honesty. How they were connected, if indeed they were. And how much of this virtue anyone had, and how long that store would last. He had told friends that if ever he repudiated Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, they were to conclude that he had run out of honesty

So (and this would have happened earlier, but I am only remembering it now): I am visiting her one afternoon.

But that was the nature of relationships: there always seemed to be an imbalance of one sort or another.

We end up all belonging to the same category, that of the non-young.

I didn't want to press Veronica. I thought I'd wait for her to get in touch this time. I checked my inbox rather too assiduously. Of course, I wasn't expecting a great effusion, but hoped, perhaps, for a polite message that it had been nice to see me properly after all these years. Well, perhaps it hadn't been. Perhaps she'd gone on a trip. Perhaps her server was down. Who said that thing about the eternal hopefulness of the human heart?

An English silence—one in which all the unspoken words are perfectly understood by both parties—prevailed.

Belki de her türlü ortak motifi ortadan kald?ran keder daha da fazlas?n? ortadan kald?r?yor: ortak motiflerin var olduÄŸuna olan inanc?.

She knew me better than anyone else in the world. And still wanted to have lunch with me. And let me go on and on about myself.

once, they had their love story. Everyone does. It's the only story.