Quotes About Longing

She was filled with…a delicious blend of loneliness and fear. That's right, I can still remember how she tasted…she was absolutely delicious.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

Anne, I'm sorry about your pa… all this time… all that waitin'. All that time? she said, taking a step toward him. You were waiting for him. He was all you ever wanted. I know it, and I'm sorry, he said. Jack, she said, her voice husky and soft. It was you, she said. It was you all that time, all those years. I was waiting… for you. - Jack & Anne

We see on our death bed, not our whole life flashing before us – as with a drowning man – but an endless sequence of all the things we had wanted to do and had never done.

People carry in their hearts an inconsolable longing for something and they are never quite sure what it is.

An inconsolable longing describes that aching sense of waiting and dissatisfaction that regularly clouds our thoughts; that feeling that in the deepest depths of existence all we will find is a void.

She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.

They will all abandon you. All you have left is my desire for you.

We all count the hours. We all look for completion, even if we fear it. We long to be consumed. I long to be consumed.

Look at him. The Autarch glanced back at the captive as he spoke. He's got seconds left to live. But the leech gave him a taste and he wants it back again. A taste of what? Of the womb, Rosengarten. He said it was like being in the womb. We're all cast out. Whatever we build, wherever we hide, we're cast out.

You still love her, don't you?" Pie said, once they were out and walking. "Of course I love her," Estabrook said. "That's why I want her dead." "There's no resurrection, Mr. Estabrook. Not for you, at least." "It's not me who's dying," he said. "I think it is," came the

There is in our natures a calamitous hunger for consummation.

Or were they breed who had died from their half-life, caught in the sun, perhaps, or withered by longing?

I dream of broken hearts tonight, And one of them is mine. It will not mend with sympathy, It won't be healed by wine. The only balm I can concieve To put the hurt to right, Would be, my sweat, of you Were not to live beyond tonight.

This, no doubt, was the call 33 had heard. Bored with his balanced diet of maize and maple peas, tired of the pecking order of the loft and the predictability of each day — the bird had wanted out; wanted up and away. A day of high life; of food that had to be chased a little, and tasted all the better for that; of the companionship of wild things. All this went through Cal's head, in a vague sort of way, while he watched the circling flocks.

She would wait and watch, as she had always watched and waited, hoping that such a puzzle would one day come to her. But if it failed to show itself she would not grieve too deeply, for fear that the mending of broken hearts be a puzzle neither wit nor time had the skill to solve.

Hate remembered though; hate remembered long after love had forgotten

way, is music. I hear that longing in countless pieces: in Barber's Adagio, in the "In Paradisum" from the Fauré Requiem, in the "Liebestod" from Tristan and Isolde; in Max Steiner's film scores, in folk songs like "Blow the Wind Southerly" and "Shenandoah

The seasons long for each other, like men and women, in order that they may be cured of their excesses.

This is the thing, I think often, that never occurs to you when you consider what it would be like to lose someone you love. That you would miss not just the flowers and kisses, but the totality of the experience. You miss the failures and little evils with as much desperation as you miss being held in the middle of the night. I wish he were here now, and I was kissing him. I wish he were here now, and I was betraying him. Either would be fine, so fine, as long as he was here.

I didn't want to love you, but I can't help it. I don't want to be without you, but I bloody well will. - Max

Non c'era premura, né ferocia tra loro... Ma il suo bacio la lasciava senza fiato, le toglieva la ragione, le indeboliva le ginocchia. Era profondo e lungo come se avesse tutto il tempo di questa terra.

I was nostalgic for everything big and small. Nostalgic for what never happened and nostalgic about what will be, looking forward to looking back on a time when things got easier.

to the empty space usually reserved for Valentine.