Quotes About Longing

It was like I'd waited all my life to have something like this, and I knew even then, at the start, that it would be hard, so hard to lose. The big stuff always is.

After the death of Alfonso, she had vowed she would never trust him again, had believed that she would hate him for ever. Yet almost against her will, he has found his way back into her thoughts, so that there have been moments these last months when she realises that she is missing him: his diamond-sharp energy, his certainty and confidence about everything, and his raw, absolute, undying love.

I know what she is thinking. That she will never have those feelings. And she wants to have them. Oh, how much she wants to...I have seen it before, the way women yearn more for a child when they have fallen in love. It is part of the disease, like the ague that goes with fever. Maybe the real lover's prick goes deep enough to ignite some loning in the womb. Maybe it is the promise of a future, something left over once the passion is spent.

She never got a chance to fall out of love, to do it properly, slowly and thoroughly, and the result was he was like a phantom limb. Gone but still there. And like a true phantom limb, the preponderance of feelings associated with him were painful.

She knew that what she was going through was nothing special, just garden-variety heartbreak, the sort of thing that poets and novelists had been writing about for hundreds of years, but she also knew, from those same books, that there were people who never recover form it, ones who go on through life beset by a dim and painful longing.

on fading passion) Sex was like the can of baking powder she kept on a high shelf in her pantry, something she didn't need right now but that she knew she could get her hands on without too much trouble.

There is a girl who still writes you; she doesn't know how not to.

And I know we live in different worlds, and we're always really busy, but in my dreams you spin around me so fast, I always wake up dizzy. So maybe one day you'll grow tired of the road and roll on back to me.

It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty.

It is hard to stop loving the ocean, even after it has left you gasping.

He finished up then shed his clothes and climbed into bed. Turning onto his side, he closed his eyes. As always as he drifted toward sleep, there was a small, forgetful moment where he slid his hand over to touch Billie's back, instinctively seeking reassurance as he hovered on the brink. As always, he found nothing but cold sheets. A few minutes after that, he fell asleep.

if Robin or Frankie wanted to sleep for a hundred years my feelings

This is what it is to love an artist: The moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful.

I've never been in love, never in my life. Oh, I've dreamed of love, dreamed endlessly, day and night, but my soul is like a fine piano that's locked, and the key is lost.

I would like to curl up and become a small thing. About this big. And still. Very still. Have you ever become so melancholy, that you wanted to fit in the palm of your beloved's hand? And lie there, for fortnights, or decades, or the length of time between stars? In complete silence?

It's this feeling that you want to love strangers, that you want to kiss the man at the post office, or the woman at the dry cleaners - you want to wrap you arms around life, life itself, but you can't and this feeling wells up in you, and there is nowhere to put this great happiness - and you're floating - and then you fall down and become unbearably sad. And you have to go lie down on the couch.

It's something so simple: two friends spending time together. But it's been so long since I've experienced that and I miss it.

Besides the money and land, Lafayette inherited a six-foot-tall hole in his heart that only a father figure like George Washington could fill.

You can't miss what you don't remember ever having.

Some of these days, Oh, you'll miss me honey

A human soul devoid of longing was a soul deformed, deprived of its highest good, sick unto death.

I want! I want! I want!

When a man's breast feels like a cage from which all the dark birds have flown—he is free, he is light. And he longs to have his vultures back again. He wants his customary struggles, his nameless, empty works, his anger, his afflictions and his sins.

There is an immense, painful longing for a broader, more flexible, fuller, more coherent, more comprehensive account of what we human beings are, who we are, and what this life is for.