Quotes About Longing

Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. As long as it stays I am ironic — if it is pulled out I shall die.

On the whole, the longing for solitude is a sign that there still is spirit in a person and is the measure of what spirit there is. [...] In antiquity as well as in the Middle Ages there was an awareness of this longing for solitude and a respect for what it means; whereas in the constant sociality of our day we shrink from solitude to the point (what a capital epigram!) that no use for it is known other than as a punishment for criminals.

What is youth? A dream. What is love? The dream's content.

Mükemmel aÅŸk, insan?n kendisini mutsuz edecek kiÅŸiyi sevmesidir.

There is, however, a power that is called memory. It should be dear to all the good ones as well as to all lovers. Yes, it may even be so dear to lovers that they almost prefer this whisper of memory to the sight of each other, as when they say, "Do you remember that time, and do you remember that time?

And should I not indeed be relaxed, I who consider myself the darling of the gods, to whom befell the rare good fortune to fall in love again? That, after all, is something no art, no study, can produce; it is a gift. But since I have succeeded in stirring up a love once more, I want at least to see how long it can be kept going. This love I coddle as I never did my first.

How far removed in time must an event be for us to remember it? How far for memory's longing to be no longer able to seize it? Most people have a limit in this respect: what lies too near them in time they cannot remember, nor what lies too remote. I know no limit. What was experienced yesterday, I push back a thousand years in time, and remember as if it were yesterday. ?Johannes de Silentio, from_Either/Or_

What are you doing here? she asked. You forgot something when you left Halstead Hall, he said hoarsely. What? Her heart lept into her throat as he strode purposefully toward her. Me.

This is the problem with hunger. This is the problem with love. There is no end in sight.

The thought of squeezing back into his stifling pre-war life stopped his breath in panic. In truth, the only time he breathed easily was with Harry, whom he loved with that same red raw ferocity — and whom he'd love with passion given the chance. But he wouldn't get that chance. The world forbade it.

Harry, who meant the world to him, and who the world would deny him. Harry, whom he loved.

I want more than what I want. (Vina Apsara)

What grows best in the heat: fantasy; unreason; lust.

If love is a yearning to be like (even to become) the beloved, then hatred, it must be said, can be engendered by the same ambition, when it cannot be fulfilled.

When you pray for what you most want in the world, its opposite comes along with it. I was given a woman whom I truly loved and who truly loved me. The opposite side of such a love is the pain of its loss. I can only feel such pain today because until yesterday I knew that love.

let me belong again to that faraway place I left so long ago, from which I am alienated, and which has forgotten me, in which I am an alien now even though it was the place where I began, let me belong again, walk those streets knowing they are mine, knowing that my story is a part of those streets, even though it isn't, it hasn't been for most of a lifetime, let it be so, let it be so

H]as it really been so long since religions persecuted people, burning them as heretics, drowning them as witches, that you can't recognize religious persecution when you see it? [ 1,000 Days 'Trapped Inside a Metaphor' (Columbia University / The New York Times , December 12, 1991)]

She'd never shaken off the feeling of being damaged by her ignorance of Love, of what it might be like to be wholly possessed by the archetypal, capitalized djinn, the yearning towards, the blurring of the boundaries of the self, the unbuttoning, until you were open from your adam's-apple to your crotch: just words, because she didn't know the thing.

we often imagined, as we drove, a fictional universe in which Fitzgerald's and Wodehouse's creations might visit one another. Bertie Wooster and Jeeves might have intruded on the rarefied world of the Eggs, silly-ass Bertie stepping into sensible Nick Carraway's shoes, and Reginald Jeeves the fish-eating Spinoza-loving gentleman's gentleman and genius finding a way to give Jay Gatsby the happy-ever-after ending with Daisy Buchanan for which he so profoundly longed.

It was a rare thing to be granted one's heart's desire.

Oysa onu ac? ac? seviyorlard?, asla kar??l?k veremeyecek kadar tutkulu bir sevgi duyuyorlard? ona; kar??l?k vermeyen sevgisinin izin verdiÄŸi ölçüde seviyorlard? onu.

He stared into the fast-flowing waters and contemplated the tragedy of desire.

He was her warrior to be loved and waited for and she would take what little of him she could get and wait for the rest.

and she went on loving him, even though he had so casually abandoned her. You were my everything, she wanted to say to him, you were my sun and moon, and who will hold my head now, who will kiss my lips, who will be a father to our children, but he was a great man destined for the halls of the immortals, and these squalling brats were no more than the jetsam he let in his wake.