Quotes About Connection

This bond I draw between you: that though you are parted in mind or in body, there will be a call in the core of you, one to the other, that nothing, no one else will answer to. By the secrets of earth and water, this bond is woven, unbreakable, irrevocable; by the law that created fire and wind this call is set in you, in life and beyond life . . .

Coren's arms tightened around the child. "It is Norrel's son—it is not an animal.

Gyre did not comment. She glanced at him, found an odd open, rueful expression on his face, as if he were looking inside and found himself lacking. It was unusual, she thought; his confidence seemed always unassailable. No one is unassailable, he said, shifting a branch in the fire with his bare hand. Then he turned his head quickly to meet her cold eye. I'm sorry. My thoughts were drifting; they floated into yours." Anchor them, she suggested drily. "I will try.

All human cultures, from hunter-gatherers to city slickers, share certain universals in the ways that we, as primates, interact with one another. This social destiny has a profound influence on the way that we relate to our dogs.

The scientist in me is perfectly comfortable with the animal lover in me, and we are both happy to celebrate together the miracle of our relationship with dogs.

We humans are in such a strange position -we are still animals whose behavior reflects that of our ancestors, yet we are unique- unlike any other animal on earth. Our distinctiveness separates us and makes it easy to forget where we came from. Perhaps dogs help us remember the depth of our roots, reminding us -the animals at the other end of the leash- that we may be special, but we are not alone. No wonder we call them our best friends.

What is given from the heart reaches the heart.

Grace and I had a friendship for today… But our friendship is for always." Page 169

alguns livros são tão bons que queremos lê-los uma e outra vez. Afeiçoamo-nos a eles.Tornam-se...bom, tornam-se um pouco a nossa familia.

Jamie likes to talk to people. He wants to know them and what they think. He believes that accurate information is essential for everyone: investors, employees, newspaper reporters.

The love between a writer and a reader is never celebrated.

The love between writer and a reader is never celebrated. It can never be proved to exist. But he was the man I loved most. He was the reader for whom I wrote. That's what my writing was. Messages in bottles.

Kao pobije?eni revolucionar napustila je svoje seksualne barikade. Nešto se u njoj slomilo, nježno, tiho i nevoljko, i zagnjurila je lice u udubljenje izme?u mog ramena i uha, ne opiru?i se. Bio sam veoma uznemiren njenom neobi?nom nježnoš?u i tiho sam joj pri?ao ni o ?emu naro?itom dok nije zaspala u mom naru?ju.

I stared at the changing patterns on the back of his white shirt as he moved under the trees.

You were the best thing in my life … I did love you. I do. As much as I've ever loved anyone, as much as I can. It feels like a lot – it takes up my whole heart.

All my life I've wanted to tell people I love them. Fear usually held me back, that they wouldn't care, or they wouldn't hear, or they would take too much from me once they knew.

Never throw love away, never neglect it. Never assume you'll find better love somewhere else. Take it wherever you're lucky enough to find it, and always try to return it in kind. Don't take so much for granted.

here to talk to Greg

The longing for solitude is a deeply romantic passion. But then writing is a romantic thing to do, predicated on desire, urgency, and an ideal of human connection, hardly available in what we wistfully call real life.

The night was a time for bestial affinities, for drawing closer to oneself.

You ask if I miss you. I think of your voice, your hands, and your eyes when you look straight into mine. I remember your courage that I hadn't suspected, and it gives me courage.

It had all happened in that instant she had seen Carol standing in the middle of the floor, watching her. Then the realization that so much had happened after that meeting made her feel incredibly lucky suddenly. It was so easy for a man and woman to find each other, to find someone who would do, but for her to have found Carol-

Carol raised her hand slowly and brushed her hair back, once on either side, and Therese smiled because the gesture was Carol, and it was Carol she loved and would always love. Oh, in a different way now, because she was a different person, and it was like meeting Carol all over again, but it was still Carol and no one else. It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell.

Who am I, anyway? Does one exist, or to what extent does one exist as an individual without friends, family, anybody to whom one can relate, to whom one's existence is of the least importance?