Quotes About Connection

A guy goes nuts if he ain't got nobody.

A man who gets few letters does not open one lightly.

Y cuando aquella cosecha crecía y luego se segaba, ningún hombre había desmigajado un terrón caliente con sus manos, dejando la tierra cribarse entre las puntas de los dedos; ninguno había palpado la semilla ni anhelado que ésta germinase.

Los hombres comían algo que no habían cultivado y no había conexión entre ellos y el pan. La tierra daba frutos sometidos al hierro y bajo el hierro moría gradualmente; porque no había para ella ni amor ni odio, y no se le ofrecían oraciones ni se le echaban maldiciones.

Azt mondják, tiszta vágás gyógyul be leghamarabb. Nincs szomorítóbb dolog a szememben, mint az olyan kapcsolat, amelyet nem tart össze más, csak a ragacs a postabélyeg hátán. Ha nem láthatod, nem hallhatod, nem érintheted meg a barátodat, legjobb, ha hagyod, menjen isten hírével.

A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through their mesh of prejudice, some paint it with their own delight. A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept wonders. The

Y a pas beaucoup de gars qui voyagent ensemble, dit-il d'un ton rêveur. J'sais pas pourquoi. Peut-être que les gens ont peur les uns des autres, dans ce sacré monde. - C'est bien plus agréable de voyager avec quelqu'un qu'on connaît, dit George.

If you're in trouble, or hurt or need — go to poor people. They're the only ones that'll help — the only ones.

We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours. That's what makes it ours--being born on it, working it, dying on it. That makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.

Sometimes I'd pray like I always done. On'y I couldn' figure what I was prayin' to or for. There was the hills, an' there was me, an' we wasn't separate no more. We was one thing. An' that one thing was holy.

And all of them were caught in something larger than themselves.

There is evil and disorder in the world because people have forgotten that all things emanate from one source. Return to that source and leave behind all self-centered thoughts, petty desires, and anger. Those who are possessed by nothing possess everything.

And like any dog, like any savage, I lay there enjoying myself, harming no man, selling nothing, competing not at all, thinking no evil, smiled on by the sun, bent over by the trees, and softly folded in the arms of the earth.

Attention is the most basic form of love; through it we bless and are blessed

We are most alive when we're in love.

but with his mother there's no question of liking him they're not even in a way separate people he began in her stomach and if she gave him life she can take it away and if he feels that withdrawal it will be the grave itself.

It frightens him to think of her this way. It makes her seem, in terms of love, so vast.

Nobody belongs to us, except in memory." (Grandparenting [1994])

She had willed herself open to him and knew that the chemistry of love was all within her, her doing. Even his power to wound her with neglect was a power she had created and granted ...

Harold believed that beauty was what happened between people, was in a sense the trace of what had happened, so he in truth found her, though minutely creased and puckered and sagging, more beautiful than the unused girl whose ruins she thought of herself as inhabiting. Such generosity of perception returned upon himself; as he lay with Janet, lost in praise, Harold felt as if a glowing tumor of eternal life were consuming the cells of his mortality.

You can go to the dark side of the moon and back and see nothing more wonderful and strange than the way men and women manage to get together.

We love too late... Oh why, why may we never join hand to hand, or give back speech truly?

As they deepen together he feels impatience that through all their twists they remain separate flesh; he cannot dare enough, now that she is so much his friend in this search; everywhere they meet a wall. The body lacks voice to sing its own song.

But, far from feeling Stavros as one of the enemy camp, he counts on him to keep this madwoman, his wife, under control. Through her body, they have become brothers.