Quotes About Longing

felt steamy and sticky and chilled through, and home seemed so far away that perhaps it did not exist at all.

Remember, this--this is the end we have waited for so long.

I think they want the same things you do, only you would... inherit them, so to speak, just by growing up. Things like excitement, and new experiences, and all kinds of strange and wonderful things happening; you get them anyway, just by the process of growing older, but for them... they've already outgrown all they know and they want to try it all over again. Even at my age, you keep thinking you've missed so much, and you get older all the time.

All men are selfish, brutal and inconsiderate--and I wish I could find one.

Music is love in search of a word.

It is easy to show that the ego ideal answers to everything that is expected of the higher nature of man. As a substitute for a longing for the father, it contains the germ from which all religions have evolved.

We never lose what we really want

What we miss—what we lose and what we mourn—isn't it this that makes us who, deep down, we truly are. To say nothing of what we wanted in life but never got to have.

How good is his memory? If very good, as dogs' memories are said to be, what grief being locked up alone might bring him. And - heart-shredding thought - is it still for you that he waits by the door?)

It would undo me, I think, to glimpse some familiar piece of clothing, or a certain book or photograph, or to catch a hint of your smell. And I don't want to be undone like that, oh my God, not with your widow standing by.

I told the shrink: It would not make me happy at all not to miss him anymore. You can't hurry love, as the song goes. You can't hurry grief, either.

The wish to please, to charm—the desire to provoke desire—runs deep in me and seems to have been there from the beginning.

And it's not the thought that she must miss them, but that she's no longer capable of missing them, that makes me sad. What we miss—what we lose and what we mourn—isn't it this that makes us who, deep down, we truly are. To say nothing of what we wanted in life but never got to have.

talk about the times I see you. Each time my heart turns over. But why should it be that almost always the person I mistake for you is someone who looks like you not at the age when you died but at some other stage of your life.

But when he saw her — if he but thought of her, a sense came over him as of the first breath of the plough-lands in spring, when the snows are but now melted and gone. He knew it now — it might have befallen him too — he, too, could have loved.

Så tenkte jeg, og derfor sa jeg det. Men sørg ikke over dette; ti jeg selv har voldt at slik måtte det ende. Og Gud bedre det for deg, sønn, så du ikke arver vår lykke. Gjør nu som din mor vil; lenge har jeg lengtet etter at mitt hode skulle ligge i hennes fang.

One year, thought Kristin, and she could hardly remember when she had last given Arne a thought. It gave her a fright—maybe she was a loose, vile woman. A year since she had seen him lying on the bier in the death chamber, when she thought she would never be happy again. She whimpered silently in fear at the inconstancy of her own heart and at the transitory nature of all things. Erlend, Erlend—would he forget her? But worse yet was that she might ever forget him.

Feelings of longing seemed to burst from her heart; they ran in all directions, like streams of blood, seeking out paths to all the places in the wide landscape where she had lived, to all her sons roaming through the world, to all her dead lying under the earth. She wondered: Had she turned cowardly? She had never felt this way before.

At times it occurs to all of us that it is downright trivial for 2 and 2 to make 4…After all, we have all experienced at least a passing feeling, a longing for a far distant dreamland where 2 and 2 make whatever we wish them to make.

The whole world was nothing but an exile with no hope of a return.

But I miss you to the point of anguish.

É completamente estúpido escrever cartas de amor, não pode ser transcrito através de uma simples carta, mas o que fazer quando este horrível oceano nos separa do homem que amamos?

Jaques was only what he was; but from a distance he became something more, became everything to me, everything I did not possess. It was to him I owed pains and pleasures whose violence alone saved me from the deserts of boredom in which I found myself bogged down.

C'est pour sauvegarder ce mystère que les hommes ont supplié longtemps les femmes de ne pas abandoner les robes longues (...) tout ce qui accentue en l'Autre la différence le rend plus désirable, puisque c'est l'Autre en tant que tel que l'homme veut s'approprier.