Quotes About Longing

She looked loving and reproachful, and I wanted her to go away.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?

What love did then, love does now: Gnaws me through.

If I could bleed, or sleep! If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

It was inestimably important for me to look at the lights of Amherst town in the rain, with the wet black tree-skeletons against the limpid streetlights and gray November mist, and then look at the boy beside me and feel all the hurting beauty go flat because he wasn't the right one-not at all.

I know I'll always think of you with something like hurt and nostalgia— — from a letter to Ann Davdiow-Goodman, written 1951

Allí iba yo otra vez, dispuesta a fabricarme una radiante imagen del hombre que me amaría apasionadamente desde el primer instante en el que me viera.

The reason I hadn't washed my clothes or my hair was because it seemed so silly. I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.

Szeretnék szeretni valakit, mert szeretném, ha szeretnének.

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow.

I didn't call you I didn't call you at all. Nevertheless, nevertheless You steamed to me over the sea

It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore. And yet I cannot let it go. I cannot let it go.

I am part man, and I notice women's breasts and thighs with the calculation of a man choosing a mistress ... but that is the artist and the analytical attitude toward the female body ... for I am more a woman; even as I long for full breasts and a beautiful body, so do I abhor the sensuousness which they bring ... I desire the things which will destroy me in the end...

As I stared down at Constantin the way you stare down at a bright, unattainable pebble at the bottom of a deep well, his eyelids lifted and he looked through me, and his eyes were full of love. I watched dumbly as a shutter of recognition clicked across the blur of tenderness and the wide pupils went glossy and depthless as patent leather.

Kendimi koÅŸu yolu olmayan bir dünyada yaÅŸayan bir yar?? at? gibi hissediyordum.

I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad infinitely desolate avenue.

Now I am surely becoming an incurable romantic.

So I perversely circle the late stars, drowsier and drowsier, sleepily longing for something.

Now I know what the girl meant in Celia Amberley when she said: If he will kiss me, everything will be all right; I'll be pretty again.

I am writing with a blunt pencil tied on a mile-long stick, at something far off over the horizon line. Will I break through someday? At least if I get 300 pages written by the end of May, I'll have the creaking, gushing skeleton plot of the whole thing.

In life, love gnawed my skin To this white bone; What love did then, love does now: Gnaws me through.

I long for a noble escape from freedom

i have so many books i am perishing to read in my bookcase. hours-and-hours-and-hours- and hours.

I wish I knew what to do with my life, what to do with my heart…