Quotes About Connection

People who don't feel cared for are not always comfortable being cared for.

I am in agreement with Goethe, who said that every day one ought to 'hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.' I would add to this the need to love. Without it, the rest is dust.

No, love is never foolish. Or unnecessary.

What does anyone say to anybody who used to be so important in her life, whom she's not seen in such a long time? It seems to me that in situations like this, we're all wondering the same thing: I'm still me; are you still you? A

I could still taste and smell and hear and see," she said. "I could still learn and I could still teach. I could still love and be loved. I had my mind and my spirit. And I had you.

I understood, that he was right in asking to be cremated. For if he was nowhere, he could be everywhere. As in, with me.

Oh, why isn't there a Community Center for People Who Need a Little Something? If people would only tell the truth about the way they felt, it would be busy all the time. There could be folding chairs arranged in groups, people sitting there saying, "I don't know, I just wanted to come here for a while." I

What she knows now is that no one is ever through with love. No one ever should be.

Lincoln sits on the chair and removes his shoes. Then he climbs in bed beside his mother, who does not respond. Jason hopes no one comes in and tells Lincoln to get off the bed. Because he would have to kill that person. He sits in the chair and watches as Lincoln touches his mother's hand, then holds it. The puppy has a name, he tells her. Nothing. Lincoln moves closer to Abby and closes his eyes.

HE REMEMBERS NOW WITH SOMETHING LIKE A FULL-BODY FLUSH, HE REMEMBERS WHAT IT MEANS TO SHARE SOMETHING WITH SOMEONE, THE PARTICULAR ALCHEMY THAT CAN LIGHT THINGS UP.

That's what life is, at its best. A confession club: people admitting to doubts and fears and failures. That's what brings us closer to one another, our imperfections.

emotions that fuel love are ageless; they live in our heart, and therefore operate independently of our bodies.

No. Real love isn't like that. My dad says real love is when the other person is your best friend and you shouldn't have to work hard around them, it should be, like, more natural, and you just want to be with them even if you're not doing anything.

All these small things are the glue that keeps you bound to your own life. They are the things that make you you. And in that respect, they are not little at all. They are huge. They are grand.

You know that hormones will course through you, whispering commands; that the pull of the moon will be shared by you and the ocean and the minds of wild things.

I stood looking at it, and a thousand things occurred to me about the way that even in bitterness and confusion and anger, my parents love for each other endured. I saw that when I was looking at them, I was only seeing the tip of the iceberg. They belonged to each other more that they belonged to us.

bound to, and the ties to such families live in our hearts.

he was learning a lot about the kind of loneliness some people endured. He

loved that he wasn't afraid of my mother, that he seemed to see past everything and acknowledge her as a person. It was a rare thing. Brooks had gotten all excited and said yes, that was right, he'd thought about that himself, he'd get to work on a design for it at the store tomorrow.

have never done this except with old-fashioned adults. It feels like we're in a new club. Gwen is wearing a brown

Because my mother is a third base.

You know your parents are going to die, but they are going to die later. They are going to die sometime. But that time will not come until you no longer need them. While you still need them, or might need them, they will have the good taste and

no one is ever through with love. No one ever should be.

The dishes we ate from were not translucent china but, rather, the heavy white plates common in less expensive cafés. Still, the food served on them was prepared by my mother, and I believed then, as I do now, that it makes a difference in taste when one's thoughts and feelings and hands are employed in what one serves.