Quotes About Longing

Ma, molto dopo, prima di cadere addormentata, con le sue braccia attorno al mio collo e le labbra incollate alle mie, mi sussurrò: La tua letterina da Alessandria l'ho letta dieci volte, almeno. Dormivo assieme a lei tutte le notti, la tenevo stretta in mezzo alle gambe.

MVLL: Pero ¿no hay una nostalgia en usted de cosas no hechas por haber dedicado tanto tiempo a la vida puramente intelectual? JLB: Creo que no. Creo que a la larga uno vive esencialmente todas las cosas y lo importante no son las experiencias, sino lo que uno hace con ellas.

Alberto soñaba sin cerrar los ojos. Habían bastado apenas unos segundos para que el mundo que abandonó le abriera sus puertas y lo recibiera otra vez en su seno sin tomarle cuentas, como si el lugar que ocupaba entre ellos le hubiera sido celosamente guardado durante esos tres años. Había recuperado su porvenir

Juventud, cuyo recuerdo desespera!

Mis infortunios sentimentales se debían más a mí que a ella, por haberla querido de una manera que ella nunca hubiera podido quererme a mí, aunque, en algunas contadas ocasiones, lo intentara.

What is love? she asked... It is a perpetual longing for someone that gets into your blood. That someone lives inside your head, haunting you, filling your soul with dreams-dreams that could well turn to tragedy were they never to be fulfilled, he reaplied...

What do you do when you're in love with the last man in the world you can have? You plan a life, a real life, without him.

Since you left there's been a you-shaped space beside me, all the time. It never goes away.

No wonder so many adults long to return to university, to all those deadlines--ahhh, that structure! Scaffolding to which we may cling! Even if it is arbitrary, without it, we're lost, wholly incapable of separating the Romantic from the Victorian in our sad, bewildering lives...

But when you flee someone, no matter how far you roam, that person will follow you as doggedly as the stars.

But you go through with it, continue to fight, because you hope one day it won't be like this. Life can be so cruel. It doles out just enough hope to keep you going, like a small cup of water and one slice of bread to someone on the verge of starvation.

Whilst man is in one location, he thinks of another. Dancing with one woman, he can't help but long to see the quiet curve of another's nude shoulder; to never be satisfied, to never have the mind and body cheerfully stranded in a single location - this is the curse of the human race!

I actually felt awed by the remote possibilities of the person you liked ever liking you back a corresponding amount.

I miss him every single day," she said. "I hate how the people who really get you are the ones you can never hold on to for very long. And the ones who don't understand you at all stick around. Ever noticed that?

I miss him every single day, he said. I hate how the people who really get you are the ones you can never hold on to for very long. And the ones who don't understand you at all stick around.

Not that she could have chosen to have the wind move through her hair the way it did, or commanded the sunlight to brighten her eyes. What she did had nothing to do with hair or eyes but with the way she moved that made the sky seem to long for her.

I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of something has always been and always will be you. I miss you.

I want what everybody wants, that's how I know I'm still breathing...

Amy: Hey, Paisley, Ever fancied someone you know you shouldn't? Bracewell: What? Amy: Hurts, doesn't it? But kind of a good hurt.

A better time. A simpler time,' said the Doctor. 'That's what we all yearn for. The pain of wanting to belong somewhere. To go home.

He was an arsehole, but, God, she looked at Richard sometimes, the racing bike, the way he did the crossword in pencil first. There were evenings when she wanted Dad to ride in off the plains, all dust and sweat and tumbleweed, kick open the saloon doors and stick some bullet holes in those fucking art books.

He knew very well that love could be like the most beautiful singing, that it could make death inconsequential, that it existed in forms so pure and strong that it was capable of reordering the universe. He knew this, and that he lacked it, and yet as he stood in the courtyard of the Palazzo Venezia, watching diplomats file quietly out the gate, he was content, for he suspected that to command the profoundest love might in the end be far less beautiful a thing than to suffer its absence.

Music was a chain forged half of silences and half of sound, love was nothing without longing and loss, and were time not to have at its end the absence of time, and the absence of time not to have been preceded by time, neither would be of any consequence.

How just it would be if for our final reward we were to be made the masters of time, and if those we love could come alive again not just in memory, but in truth.