Quotes About Connection

If we go about the world giving bits of ourselves to people we meet . . . it's worthwhile having lived . . . we leave something behind us which goes on—and on.

I was not alone in my experience—not alone anymore. The mere fact that another had walked where I was walking made the path easier for my feet.

Wherever Paula went she made friends and gathered information—she was interested in everything and everybody, and her interest drew people toward her and opened their hearts. Her manner was always natural and sincere, and it rarely failed to evoke a natural and sincere response—she was never patronizing, never gushing, never subservient, she was always herself.

Of course I know that you have forgotten me long ago, you are not lonely like I am. You have a husband to share your life, a house to care for, a garden to enjoy, perhaps you have children. You would think it crazy that a woman you met three years ago for ten minutes should think of you as her greatest friend, but you would not grudge me the consolation of your shadowy presence if you knew what it meant to me.

Somehow talking to him had made me feel better. He was sane and sensible—the first sane, sensible person I had spoken to for hours. As I walked back to the car I had an absurd feeling that I could be friends with that waiter. I wondered what his name was and where he lived … it was foolish, of course; I knew nothing about him, nothing except that he was sensible and kind.

interested in Barbara, whom, after eighteen months of daily contact, he was just beginning to know. The strangest thing about Barbara, Arthur reflected, the strangest thing about this strange woman who was now his lawful wedded wife, was that although she understood practically nothing, she yet understood everything.

Oh, I don't know. I just had a feeling that it was nice of her to be nice—if you see what I mean. She thinks Hugo is marvellous—and of course he is," added Patty hastily. "Does your father like him?" "Yes, of course. Everybody likes him.

The relationship between a brother and sister is peculiar in the sense that it is unique for it is the only one in which the two sexes can meet as equals on a purely personal basis. No brother thinks of his sister as a woman and few sisters can see their brothers as men. For this reason there can be real friendship between them.

They understood one another perfectly. They trusted one another. They were useful to one another. That was the ideal relationship of one human being to another human being . . . usefulness . . . to take and give service.

These were the things Kitty talked about when I met her—and I listened. She never wanted to know about my life—and why should she? My life was so monotonous that I would have found it difficult to discuss it with her if she had ever shown any desire to know what I did with myself.

My post bag is full of letters from all over the world and the curious thing is that so many of these letters tell me that my books are a cure for loneliness. Perhaps this is because I open the door and invite my readers to come in, to sit down by the fire and take part in the life of the characters.

Was it this? Unlike as they were in everything upon which human friendship is usually based — unlike in upbringing, in modes of life, in habits, interests, and thoughts, poles apart in station and in appearance, there was yet a bond between them which needed no forging, but sprang suddenly and strongly into being at their first contact.

And I saw how foolish I had been to fuss and worry about 'the right approach' because of course 'the right approach' to all our fellow creatures is just to love them.

The worst of my troubles was loneliness. I had not a single friend nor any prospect of making one. The jostling crowds surged past me on the pavements (hordes of people chattering to one another) but I knew nobody and nobody knew me or cared whether I lived or died. If Miles had been here it would have been entirely different. We could have talked about our experiences and had jokes together. If Miles had been here I would not have minded what Wrigson and Ullenwood thought.

Presumably people lived in these other flats but Bel had lived in her flat for eighteen months—and she knew nobody. Sometimes she met people on the stairs but they passed by as if she were invisible. It was very different from Southmere where she knew everyone and everyone knew her and where, even if you did not know a person, it was correct to say "Good morning" as you passed.

We don't exist unless we are deeply and sensually in touch with that which can be touched but not known.

The tragedy is when you've got sex in the head instead of down where it belongs.

One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it, and the journey is always towards the other soul.

We fucked a flame into being.

I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.

I believe that stories find writers, writers don't find stories. With the 'Pendragon' series, I actually had multiple story ideas and decided that instead of writing them individually, I would create a character whose journey would thread them all together.

I love you Mark..." Courtney, PoR. I love you too Courtney..." Mark, PoR.

A] friend is someone who gives you trust because they want to, not because they have to.

If you didn't exist, I wouldn't exist. Everything I've done is because of you!