Quotes About Longing

Life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was the point whither their pathway had so long been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along;—and yet it enclosed a charm that made them linger upon it, and claim another, and another, and, after all, another moment

These reminiscences and associations, together with the tendency to heart-break natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily[.]

Someone speak to me. Call out to me and take me out. Please, please, I'm begging you, say something kind to me. Tell me I'm pretty, tell me I'm sweet. Invite me out for coffee, or more... Tell me that you want to spend the day with me and me alone.

I realized that the last thing I wanted to do was go home. A weird feeling—like on the one hand I wanted to go back to that other world, but at the same time didn't care if my connections to it were cut forever. It wasn't a feeling of being free or anything. I just didn't want to go back. I wanted to float somewhere in between.

In this world there are people who prefer beauty after it's gone away or the dregs of a prosperity depleted.

Each day I lacerated myself thinking on her, but I didn't go back.

Better to be numb than plagued by longing for something that could never be.

Keep me warm. I have no warmth of my own- only what the sun brings me, and the sun is halfway around the world. Keep me warm.

Close enough to feel it, but not close enough to burn.

There was never anything wrong with my life. Perhaps that was the problem... The crack in my life was the fact that I had everything I wanted, or could ever want—and when you have it all, boredom grows like a fungus, coating everything you own and everything you feel.

I will always be there on the horizon,' I tell her. And with infinite sorrow, she says, 'I believe that. But sadly I am no longer looking out of that window.

Where are you, my dear Marie?

We weren't close," Citra insisted. "We weren't anything." And that hurt to admit more than her parents could possibly know. How could she and Rowan have any kind of relationship when they were forced to be lethal adversaries? Even now, when he was hunted and she was yoked with the heavy responsibility of scythehood, how could there be anything between them but a dark well of longing?

It will never happen for them, but somehow he's content in knowing that in some other place and time it would have. He holds her for ten seconds, twenty. Thirty. Then she slips away, and he returns to the dining hall. In a few minutes he hears her playing, the strains of her music pouring forth, filling Happy Jack with the upbeat, pulse-pounding sound track of the damned.

Only stories of love pass through our post-mortal filter, yet even then, we are baffled by the intensity of longing and loss that threatens those mortal tales of love.

Their sleep was dreamless, as it would be for a long, long time.

Homesick, Grace?" he asks, as they near the town. "Home always makes me sick," she says. "Drive on.

Her husband of more than ninety years was gleaned five years prior. Now she wanted to be with him, wherever he was, and if he was nowhere, then at least they would be nowhere together.

She took a few steps toward him but stopped – as if getting too close would burst some bubble, breaking the spell, and this tenuous night vision of Rowan would dissolve into nothing. But he ran toward her, and she found she was running, too, as if she had no control over her own legs. Perhaps she and Rowan had both grown so much larger than life that the gravity between them was too intense to resist. When they embraced, they nearly knocked each other off their feet.

He cannot deny how much he loves her - and the pain of that longing is enough to make him know that he lives. That he is. For how could he feel such anguish if he had no soul? Yet in many ways he feels as if she took his soul with her when she left.

I know that feeling intimately. It's where I live. I eat, sleep, and dream of the void, and whenever it calls my name, I'm there in the front row ready to answer.

It is the plight of every child to have depth their parents can scarcely imagine. But, oh, how I long to be understood.

All her hopes of a future have been torn away from her again-- and having those hopes, even briefly, makes this far more painful than not having had them at all.

We are not the same beings we once were. Consider our inability to grasp literature and most entertainment from the mortal age. To us, the things that stirred mortal human emotions are incomprehensible. Only stories of love pass through our post-mortal filter, yet even then, we are baffled by the intensity of longing and loss that threatens those mortal tales of love.