Quotes About Longing

Whatever she did she would find herself thinking of people who weren't there.

She imagined Begu's mother, Enynny and Ennynny's mother, and her mother before her, back into memory, sitting here by the ferns drinking the cold, minty water, and talking quietly in British. So many. All gone into the mist. She felt a twist inside, a longing for a family and home that never was.

Desire wrapped its arms around her and held her still, helpless, able only to breathe.

She didn't like the princely Boldcloak much. She missed her Cian. Missed the Cian she might have told of misjudging bandits and what eagles saw.

Gwladus stood before her, close enough to smell. Hild didn't look up. If she did, she would pull Gwladus close and never let her go.

Sunshine and musk and dusty violets, but so faint. I breathed again: her skin, and her hair, oh dear god her hair…Tears ran down my face, my neck, dripped on my hands onto her shirt. All I had left of her. So faint. So very faint.

I sipped, and the hot liquor eased the pain in the center of my chest, warmed the unfallen tears, made me long to bury my face in a woman's hair. In Julia's hair.

She walked alone in the rain, half mad with trying not to remember the soft warmth of Onnen's motherly breast and the smell of her clothes, trying not to think of the glint of firelight on Begu's escaping hair because then she'd remember it always, one more meory to torment her.

The urge to roam increased upon her like a thirst.

He was always just about to leave, always about to pick up the phone, and he always persuaded himself for a minute or two that stretched into thirty, into two hours, into night. We go back a long way.

Now when she spied on women and men she crept close and closer, closer than was safe, because she was drawn to the curve of a lip, the gleam of sweat on a throat, and she longed to feel the weigh of glossy hair on her skin.

Peretur wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but Nimuë looked brittle enough to fall apart. So she just waited.

I don't want to be here alone. I want you to stay." "People don't stay just because you want them to.

In the flickering ochre-and-gold light, Peretur saw the heat rise in Nimuë's cheeks, and her lips redder, and her own belly warmed, and she filled with another hunger.

She knew that scent, and her need rose like the tide.

As she rode, her dreams filled with that yielding breast and warm breath and those luscious lips until she thought she might run mad.

She longed for the sound of girls' voices or a woman singing as she fed chickens.

Her lips were soft and plump as rain and Peretur wanted to plunge her hands deep into her golden yellow hair, deep under her skirts to the soft places beneath, and she could feel their hearts thundering like horss, like hoses yoked and racing together, pulling towards the same goal, beanth tearing in and out.

The fact that nothing in this world fulfills us does not prevent us from longing for a world that is less ignoble and less ugly. In a well-tended garden the soul observes with nobler tranquility the initial onslaught of winter.

He who longs for "perfect communication" among individuals, their reciprocal "perfect transparency," their mutual "perfect possession," as a certain high priest of the left does, longs for the perfect totalitarian society.

Don't you know that we must always have a place where we never go but where we think we'd be happy if we did?

I cannot get close to any you.

Even as a child I had a strong relationship with yearning and desire. And loss. Those things spoke to me.

I think I would be very sad if I wasn't able to have a baby.