Quotes About Longing

O that I were your lover for a month or two, he murmured, I would make that pretty heart's blood of yours ache in a fortnight.

All my life I've wanted to see London. [...] I wanted to see London the way old people want to see home before they die.

I'm doing what I've always done. Loving you and hoping you'll be brave enough to love me back.

Mais il ne l'a pas oubliée, il ne l'oubliera jamais, elle était le grand amour de sa vie. Et elle, maintenant, je la retrouve en train de se biturer en plein midi à poil dans sa cuisine. Elle aussi, elle erre dans ce brouillard morose, et moi je n'ai toujours pas réussi à m'en libérer, alors que je vais avoir bientôt trente ans.

You can't live with literary characters no matter how much you might like to.

Era sfinito, eppure non sentiva alcun desiderio di andare a casa. Ogni sera era la stessa cosa. Tornare a casa significava affrontare un oceano di solitudine.

God is looking for you. He will go anywhere to find you. He loves you, he wants you home, he cannot rest unless he has you with him.

It had brought me into touch with something within me that lies far beyond the ups and downs of a busy life, something that represents the ongoing yearning of the human spirit, the yearning for a final return, an unambiguous sense of safety, a lasting home.

Somehow I have become deaf to the voice that calls me the Beloved, have left the only place where I can hear that voice, and have gone off desperately hoping that I would find somewhere else what I could no longer find at home.

There is a deep hole in your being, like an abyss. You will never succeed in filling that hole, because your needs are inexhaustible. You have to work around it so that gradually the abyss closes.

It is hard to bear with people who stand still along the way, lose heart, and seek their happiness in little pleasures which they cling to...You feel sad about all that self-indulgence and self-satisfaction, for you know with an indestructible certainty that something greater is coming.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers?

What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers? I walk alone. My heart is full. Feelings impede the current of my thoughts. I knock on the earth for my friend. I expect to meet him at every turn; but no friend appears, and perhaps none is dreaming of me.

One may be drunk with love without being any nearer to finding his mate...Love must be as much a light as a flame.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.

Nor is it every apple I desire,      Nor that which pleases every palate best; 'T is not the lasting Deuxan I require,      Nor yet the red-cheeked Greening I request, Nor that which first beshrewed the name of wife, Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife: No, no! bring me an apple from the tree of life.

The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.

Why do we want to live for ever? Because we hope that tomorrow will bring us someone we can love. Because we want to live another day with the person we love beside us. Because we want to find someone who deserves our Love and who, in turn, will know how to love us as we deserve to be loved. That is why, when a man has no one to love him, he feels a great desire to die. As long as he has friends, people who love him and whom he loves too, he will live. Because to live is to love.

What is left to Lust when its cravings at last subside, as subside in the end they will? It is alone. It has died. It has made no bonds and is in the desert that it has made, with no longer even a craving.

She envied Ralph his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything more - this idea was as sweet as a vision of a cool bath in a marble tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land. ... but Isabel recognized, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end.

Her memory's your love. You want no other.

What had the man had, to make him by the loss of it so bleed and yet live? Something—and this reached him with a pang—that he, John Marcher, hadn't; the proof of which was precisely John Marcher's arid end.  No passion had ever touched him, for this was what passion meant; he had survived and maundered and pined, but where had been his deep ravage?... The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived.