Quotes About Longing

You can't hate a proov when you're near one, because you want to be like them, you ache to be like them. You want to be perfect, too, and you know if you were improved you'd act just like they do, and feel what they feel, and glide through the world with sky-colored eyes and hair like sunlight, and nothing dirty or broken could ever touch you.

We are poor mortals, but it dreams to us that we can fly.

The fictions were far more persuasive than the facts, and more persuasive than both was the longing to be caught up in a mass movement of solidarity, with the promise of emancipation at the end. My father's grievances were real and well founded. But his solutions were dreams.

But what can you do with another person's beauty? The satisfied lover is as little able to possess the beauty of his beloved as the one who hopelessly observes it from afar.

it is because I am a man who occasionally aspires to things beyond the belly and the phallus.

Sve dok nisam došao do ?arobne rije?i. Amber. (...) Rije? bijaše nabijena strahovitom ?ežnjom i golemom nostalgijom. Imala je, zamotan u sebi, osje?aj zaboravljene ljepote, grandioznih dostignu?a i mo?i užasne i gotovo kona?ne. Nekako, ta je rije? pripadala mom rje?niku. I nekako, ja bijah dio nje, a ona dio mene. Bijaše to ime mjesta, znao sam, mjesta koje sam neko? poznavao. Ali nije izazivala nikakve slike, samo osje?aje.

I've been waiting for you since the beginning of Time, Corwin." "Must have been a bit tiresome.

Am I in love? - Yes, since I'm waiting. The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.

To whom can I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought... ?

Am I in love? – yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

A mandarin fell in love with a courtesan. 'I shall be yours,' she told him, 'when you have spent a hundred nights waiting for me, sitting on a stool, in my garden, beneath my window.' But on the ninety-ninth night, the mandarin stood up, put his stool under his arm, and went away.

Absence is the figure of privation; simultaneously, I desire and I need. Desire is squashed against need: that is the obsessive phenomenon of all amorous sentiment.

It is my desire I desire, and the loved being is no more than its tool.

The text you write must prove to me that it desires me.

And, long after the amorous relation is allayed, I keep the habit of hallucinating the being I have loved: sometimes I am still in anxiety over a telephone call that is late, and no matter who is on the line, I imagine I recognize the voice I once loved: I am an amputee who still feels pain in his missing leg.

Is love then, that madness I *want*?

I'm cold, the lover says, let's go back, but there is no road, no way, the boat is wrecked.

Like a kind of melancholy mirage, the other withdraws into infinity and I wear myself out trying to get there.

But isn't desire always the same, whether the object is present or absent? Isn't the object always absent?

Nela vejo apenas o objeto de um desejo esteticamente retido.

Un mandarín estaba enamorado de una cortesana. «Seré tuya», dijo ella, «cuando hayas pasado cien noches esperándome sentado sobre un banco, en mi jardín, bajo mi ventana». Pero, en la nonagesimonovena noche, el mandarín se levanta, toma su banco bajo el brazo y se va.

Only the Mother can regret: to be depressed, it is said, is to resemble the Mother as I imagine her regretting me eternally

The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.

The lover's discourse is in a sense a series of No Exits