Quotes About Longing

From thinking about your sweet face between my legs.

Of such dreams and of the rituals of them there can also be no end. The thing that is sought is altogether other. However it may be construed within men's dreams or by their acts it will never make a fit. These dreams and these acts are driven by a terrible hunger. They seek to meet a need which they can never satisfy, and for that we must be grateful.

And of course it's true that any number of these books were penned in lieu of burning down the world—which was their author's true desire. But the real question is are we few the last of a lineage? Will children yet to come harbor a longing for a thing they cannot even name?

He'd stop and lean on the cart and the boy would go on and then stop and look back and he would raise his weeping eyes and see him standing there in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle.

Forty minutes later he saw her and stopped and sat the horse and watched. She was riding along a red dirt ridge to the south sitting with her hands crossed on the pommel, looking toward the last of the sun, the horse slogging slowly through the loose sandy dirt, the red stain of it following them in the still air. That's my heart yonder, he told the horse. It always was.

Will children yet to come harbor a longing for a thing they cannot even name? The legacy of the word is a fragile thing for all its power, but I know where you stand, Squire. I know that there are words spoken by men ages dead that will never leave your heart.

What a man seeks is beauty, plain and simple. No other way to put it. The rustle of her clothes, her scent. The sweep of her hair across his naked stomach ( . . . ) That the man knows not how to even name that which enslaves him hardly lightens his burden.

He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and shadow. In the end perhaps not even that.

Nor does God whisper through the trees. His voice is not to be mistaken. When men hear it they fall to their knees and their souls are riven and they cry out to Him and there is no fear in them but only that wildness of heart that springs from such longing and they cry out to stay his presence for they know at once that while godless men may live well enough in their exile those to whom He has spoken can contemplate no life without Him but only darkness and despair. Trees

Most people'll run from their own mother to get to hug death by the neck. They cant wait to see him.

A friend once told me that those who choose a love that can never be fulfilled will be hounded by a rage that can never be extinguished.

I hadnt known until that night that at its worst lust could be something close to anguish.

He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance.

Die Toten können deine Liebe nicht erwidern.

Borman looked around. Somewhere out here the last ivorybill died. Thirty years ago probably. I still listen for them. What sense does that make? They're gone forever. I didnt know you were a bird watcher. I'm not. I'm a forever watcher. Forever is a long time.

When the Papayuna is pining you need to call home.

Will children yet to come harbor a longing for a thing they cannot even name?

There were times I'd see [my brother] looking at me and I would leave the room crying. I knew that I'd never be loved like that again. I just thought that we would always be together. I know you think I should have seen that as more aberrant than I did, but my life is not like yours. My hour. My day. I used to dream about our first time together. I do yet. I wanted to be revered. I wanted to be entered like a cathedral.

Odd the way the world is. How you can have just about anything except what you want.

A friend once told me that that those who choose a love that can never be fulfilled will be hounded by a rage that can never be extinguished.

Él se levantó, dejó la servilleta en la mesa, cogió el sombrero que había dejado en la otra silla y se lo puso. Dijo que, en efecto, le esperaba un largo viaje. Dijo que no sabía cuál iba a ser el final de ese viaje o si sabría verlo cuando llegase, y luego le pidió que rezara por él, pero ella dijo que ya había pensado en hacerlo antes de que él se lo pidiera.

I love her to this day. Love of her led me to leave her. But some other kind of love, whose dimensions were beyond both description and comprehension, was fueling my feelings and moving me in directions that I hadn't anticipated. I had found love. I had lost love. Love of my calling was pushing me on.

Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?

Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The books told you about that feeling. The books spoke of love, and it was wonderful to listen to them, but they were no substitute for love itself. They couldn't kiss her like Meggie, they couldn't hug her like Resa, they couldn't laugh like Mortimer. Poor books, poor Elinor.