Quotes About Longing

On the one hand, the idea of marriage and the sort of traditional family life repulses me. But on the other hand, I long for it, you know what I mean? I'm constantly in conflict with things. And it is because of my past and my upbringing and the journey that I've been on.

No one can have everything, so you have to try for what you want most.

What's the good of resisting temptation? There'll always be more.

Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness. Then what resentful wonder, and what half-aimless seeking. It is a silly state of affairs. It is a silly creature that tries to get a smile from even the most familiar and loving shadow. Comical and hopeless, the long gaze back is always turned inward.

I wanted Lane. I wanted to keep her for my own. I wanted to lock her up in this house and keep her for me.

Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking that all desire is yearning. "We love to contemplate blue, not because it advances to us, but because it draws us after it," wrote Goethe, and perhaps he is right. But I am not interested in longing to live in a world in which I already live. I don't want to yearn for blue things, and God forbid for any "blueness." Above all, I want to stop missing you.

That's enough. You can stop now: the phrase Sedgwick said she longed to hear whenever she was suffering. (Enough hurting, enough showing off, enough achieving, enough talking, enough trying, enough writing, enough living.)

to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.

Is to be in love with blue, then, to be in love with a disturbance? Or is the love itself the disturbance? And what kind of madness is it anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally incapable of loving you back?

Love is not consolation," she wrote. "It is light." All right then, let me try to rephrase. When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.

This is the dysfunction talking. This is the disease talking. This is how much I miss you talking. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.

And what kind of madness is it anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally incapable of loving you back? 37. Are you sure -- one would like to ask -- that it cannot love you back?

This is how much I miss you talking. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.

Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking that all desire is yearning.

94.—Well then, it is as you please. This is the dysfunction talking. This is the disease talking. This is how much I miss you talking. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.

I feel at once the need to die and be reborn one thousand years ago.

and I am missing you in the way that spreads. I'm trying to wear my freedom like an amulet, make it something I'll never forget.

Love is not consolation," she wrote. "It is light." All right then, let me try to rephrase. When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.

I want you to know, if you ever read this, there was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world.

How often I've imagined the bubble of body and breath you and I made, even though by now I can hardly remember what you look like, I can hardly see your face.

No more words from the field! Thus begins the slow slide back to my life, back to the plans I drew before the summer became the summer of wanting you

Sitting in my office before teaching a class on prosody, trying not to think about you, about my having lost you. But how can it be? How can it be? Was I too blue for you. Was I too blue. I look down at my lecture notes: Heártbréak is a spondee. Then I lay my head down on the desk and start to weep.—Why doesn't this help?

Well then, it is as you please. This is the dysfunction talking. This is the disease talking. This is how much I miss you talking. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.

She sits there and feels the loneliness and the lack of him