Quotes About Distance

What are you thinking about?" Tassin asked. She spoke so softly that I replied without thinking, still staring into the fire. "That sometimes it only makes one more lonely to know that somewhere else, one's friends and family are well.

there remained a strange formality between them, and her pleasure in his presence felt too much like missing him had felt during the last week.

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream, and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there.

I've been praying for that same kind of discernment lately. I want to recognize the dangerous, potentially biting characters in my story: the people who create constant emotional debris with their destructive personalities or who refuse to shed the skin of deception, the ones who threaten the God-with-me peace in my life. I'm learning to keep my distance and to pray for snakes, but not make a habit of getting down in the dirt to play with them.

None of us got it right. The message was written in letters too big to read, letters that could only be deciphered from a vast distance or an unusual angle. We were as good as blind. This, by the way, is a figurative expression. Unlike many on the spectrum, I can deploy those.

Always in the dream, it seemed as if there were a destination: a something--he could not grasp what-that lay beyond the place where the thickness of snow brought the sled to a stop. He was left, upon awakening, with the feeling that he wanted, even somehow needed, to reach the something that waited in the distance. The feeling that it was good. That it was welcoming. That it was significant. But he did not know how to get there.

Things seem more when you're little. They seem bigger, and distances seem farther.

You can stand at the edge of the meadow and look across to Sweden!

He was left, upon awakening, with the feeling that he wanted, even somehow needed, to reach the something that waited in the distance. The feeling that it was good. That it was welcoming. That it was significant. But he did not know how to get there.

He heard people singing. Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But perhaps it was only an echo.

Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music, too. But perhaps it was only an echo.

He wondered what lay in the far distance where he had never gone. The land didn't end beyond those nearby communities. Were there hills Elsewhere? Were there vast wind-torn areas like the place he had seen in memory, the place where the elephant died?

So in the physics of the heart, distance is relative; it's time that's absolute.

Miles watched the evening shadows flowing up along the backbone of the Dendarii range, high and massive in the distance. How small those mountains looked from space! Little wrinkles on the skin of a globe he could cover with his hand, all their crushing mass made invisible. Which was illusory, distance or nearness? Distance, Miles decided. Distance was a damned lie. Had his father known this? Miles suspected so.

Vorkosigan probably knew how, she reflected bitterly. Just like a man, to be underfoot in her life for days and then a quarter of a solar system away when she really needed him.

Across the distance between them, Bree's gaze met Mikkel's, and she did not blink.

Perhaps we had at last reached that stage of intimacy that destroys intimacy.

Forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.

Back at home, days later, feel cranky and tired. Sit on the couch and tell him he's stupid. That you bet he doesn't know who Coriolanus is. That since you moved in you've noticed he rarely reads. He will give you a hurt, hungry-to-learn look, with his James Cagney eyes. He will try to kiss you. Turn your head. Feel suffocated. (from How)

He was thinking, but she could tell he wasn't good at it....'Where do you live,' she asked, 'and how do I get there?

All this wandering that you do, he said, leaning in the window, his face white as a cream cheese, his scar the carved zigzag of a snowmobile across a winter lake. Wind blew handsomely through his hair. How will anyone ever get close to you? I don't know, she said. She shook his hand through the window and then put on her gloves.

No, we're not getting married," I told my mother on the phone when she asked. "He's going to California and I'm staying here." Usually she doesn't phone. Usually she just does things like send me notes with histrionic scrawlings that read, "Well, you know, I can't use these," and along with the notes she encloses coupons for Kotex or Midol.

She would turn from him in bed, her hands under the pillow, the digital clock peeling back the old skins of numbers.

A todo o momento vejo coisas que gostaria que visses, gostaria que estivesses aqui para as veres com os teus próprios olhos. Procuro ver coisas para ti, e guarda-las na minha memória, e tenho a fantasia de que se me concentrar mesmo muito, posso fazê-las chegar a ti, para que tu as vejas nos teus sonhos. Como se a vida pudesse ser assim.