Quotes About Longing

The heart knows no pain sharper than love's arrow.

It's not so much where I want you,Sophie, as it is how. Nothing tastes quite like a woman, and no woman tastes like you. - Marc Hunter

Och, Sarah, how shall I call augh' beautiful again unless it be the sight of you?

Now I will know always the thrill of a kiss, and know what it is I am cursed to live without.

Worldly objects are short-lived. They may or may not last until tomorrow. They consume the life of our senses. No matter how long we live, it is not enough. Therefore, O Gurudeva, please keep your chariots, elephants, and dancing girls for yourself. "A human being can never be satiated with wealth.

O MAN! Offer Thy labyrinthine longings into a monotheistic bonfire consecrated to the unparalleled God. Burn desire for human affection in the fire of aspiration for GOD alone, a love solitary because omnipresent! Throw faggot of ignorance to incandesce the blaze of insight! Devour all sorrows in the sorrow for God's absence. Consume all regrets in meditative bliss!

Another early memory is my wish for an ugly dog belonging to a neighbour. I kept my household in turmoil for weeks to get that dog. My ears were deaf to offers of pets with more prepossessing appearance. Moral: Attachment is blinding; it lends an imaginary halo of attractiveness to the object of desire. "A

The adhesive force by which all three bodies are held together is desire. The power of unfulfilled desires is the root of all man's slavery.

She had awakened something in him that had slumbered far too long. Not only did he feel passion, he felt the return of hope.

At the top the bridge with the stars shining above the harbor, I look to the north and wish again that there were two lives apportioned to every man and woman.

Home is a damaged word, bruisable as fruit, in the cruel glossaries of the language I choose to describe the long, fearful march of my childhood. Home was a word that caught in my throat, stung like a paper cut, drew blood in its passover of my life, and hurt me in all the soft places. My longing for home was as powerful as fire in my bloodstream.

Don't go yet. Please. Tell me a story, one about us. Tell what it meant. How on earth did it happen? The story, Pat—tell it to me.

Gonzaga was the kind of place you'd not even think about loving until you'd left it for a couple of years.

that dressing room for an hour as my mother pretended to be making up her mind about buying that dress she could never afford. And from that day on we never saw her adorn her glorious hair with a single blossom, nor was she ever in our long childhood

M]otherlessness caused one of the great thirsts of the human condition.

I love you. I worn' about you. I wonder whether I tell you enough how I love you and want you and need you and how I am diminished and afraid when you are not with me and how I am multiplied when you are here." His

Secrets I am all secrets now. I know when you walk into a room. I don't need to see or hear you behind me, but I know you're there and wish you'd touch my shoulder when you walk by. How can you do that, without a sound, send electricity, a current through a room full of people? When did this crazy secret life start? People see me but don't see I've changed. The me people see isn't the tangled me inside, trying not to think about you, your laugh splashing like a waterfall on a hot summer day.

I wish you were small again, so I could hold you in my arms and comfort you. But you are grown, and you know that for some things there is no comfort.

Soon is such a long word.

Morgan, he whispered, I wish you had not been someone I loved so.

Sybel, you went from me like a dream, so silently, so irrevocably—I could not bear it, I could not bear it—

They rode horses as white as hoarfrost. Snow and star and dark whipped around one another to etch a fine-boned face, eyes of night and crystal fire. Their mantles were of dark wind and snow; their wild hair caught snow and falling stars. The boy watched them, too, longing for their beauty, their mastery over cold and storm. Come to us. This is not your true home. You belong elsewhere. You belong with us.

The longing for solitude is a deeply romantic passion. But then writing is a romantic thing to do, predicated on desire, urgency, and an ideal of human connection, hardly available in what we wistfully call real life.

You ask if I miss you. I think of your voice, your hands, and your eyes when you look straight into mine. I remember your courage that I hadn't suspected, and it gives me courage.