Quotes About Longing

The bigger the hole inside you, the more desperate you became to fill it.

My life is moving forward in a weird empty narrative, missing one key character, whose current life is a continuous loop.

I had come to see, too, that all my characters and I were motivated by the same inspiration. Whether it was power they sought, or revenge, or love—well, those were all just different forms of hunger. The bigger the hole inside you, the more desperate you became to fill it. As

It doesn't matter what it is that leaves a hole inside you. It just matters that it's there.

You may think there's nothing very interesting about seeing someone sleep, but that probably means you've never found the girl of your dreams.

It would be far worse to think you were passionately wanted and loved and find out that you never were

wondered about what he said and then thought hard. I could never be a dick, not to Gretchen anyway, so I guess I was doomed; doomed to go for this girl that didn't go for me. But that was OK as I long as I did everything I could.

This man has the same kind of charm, the kind that suggests weakness, the kind that indicates how sad he will always make her feel. There is something dependable, unfailing in this sort of sadness.

No one knows what it is to lie here alone day after day, in silence and darkness, without hearing a voice or seeing a ray of light. Sad thoughts come over me, and I do not feel sometimes as if I could bear it any longer or as if it could ever be light again.

echaba de menos poder correr al aire libre.

I wish I could lay down beside her and die too.

Love can sometimes rise up like a desperate cry from a neglected part of oneself which takes a long view but which is submerged by the presence of strident wants.

Once you've lived in France, you don't want to live anywhere else, including France.

The music brought us what it seemed / We had long desired, but in a form / so rarefied there was no emptiness of sensation

I would have made her a part of me. If I could, I would have had a notch cut in my already aging side and a slip of her, my young rose, inserted there and lashed to me with twine.

Whom now would I love, and who would love me?

He had scores to settle with the world, and she, at that moment, was world enough for him.

And I have tried to forget him, I have tried to convince myself that it was just one of those things, but it's difficult to do that when my body is standing here, eight feet deep in the earth of northern France, while my heart remains by a stream in a clearing in England where I left it weeks ago.

I was deluding myself, for love was one thing but desire was something else entirely.

I have always been a lover of the sun, even if, through spending a lifetime in Ireland, I have had little personal connection with it.

But for all that we had, for all the luxury to which we were accustomed, we were both denied love, and this deficiency would be scorched into our futures lives like an ill-considered tattoo inscribed on the buttocks after a drunken night out, leading each of us inevitably toward isolation and disaster.

The sensation that for the world to exist with an object of such beauty in it—and for that object to be unattainable—was the very sweetest kind of pain imaginable.

I stared at him and felt the tears forming in my eyes. "Do you know how much I've missed you?" I asked him. "It's been almost thirty years. I shouldn't have had to spend all that time on my own.

What I would not have given to be that young at this time and to be able to experience such unashamed honesty.