Quotes About Companionship

Dalton. We don't know where the others are. They were just behind us. I think we'd better wait for them.' 'I saw a cart pull out in front of them,' Sophie said. 'It'll have slowed them down.' Mr Lloyd looked round, frowning. 'No one's come to the door to check what we're

continue, stared down at her feet. Her companion's

My son, remember that a woman with a secret may be a fascinating study, but she can never be a safe, nor even satisfactory, companion.

It was always the same now, the ghost always coming between her and her life in the world, so much more important, since that lost being was still her only companion, and their now-obsolete relationship the one true human contact she would ever have.

Men don't even ask me out. I can't remember the last time I was asked out on a date, and I'm talking years here. I spend my life more and more alone.

Reading has always been my home, my sustenance, my great invincible companion. "Book love," Trollope called it. "It will make your hours pleasant to you as long as you live." Yet of all the many things in which we recognize some universal comfort...reading seems to be the one in which the comfort is most undersung...

When I was still a living man in the life that I lived, I met a young fellow. His name was George. I latched on to him. We shared our pain and joy. He was much younger than I was. I valued everything about young George. In that young man I found again everything I prized in life. Now he has as little to do with me as a living man does with a dead one. May he think of me from time to time, if he has the time for it. I know that the living are very busy.

Anything that keeps one from feeling alone can be a consolation. Not only can what others are suffering be a consolation while we are suffering, but even knowing what others suffered long ago can be consoling.

As soon as the pub opens, I'm going straight there to drink four pints in a row.' 'I'll try to join you once I've seen McGuire. That's if he lets me out again.

The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch swing with, never say a word, and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.

He might know things Meg wanted to learn, but he would never be as thorough about cleaning the salt and butter off her hands after movie night.

Sam," Meg said sternly. "I have deliveries to make before we can play. You have to wait for me at home." He talked back, and she didn't need to speak Wolf to know he wanted to come with her and wasn't agreeing with anything she said about him staying home by himself.

Besides, Jester had told him that Meg felt nervous about being too alone. Very Wolfish of her, not wanting to be too alone. He approved.

For now, he and Meg were going to have the adventure of seeing a new place and having a new experience. Together. He wasn't human. Would never be human. And Meg didn't expect him to be. But feeling her hand in his, Simon thought maybe he could learn to be human enough.

It's well these women must be blabbing. If they haven't a friend to talk to, they must whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the sand or something;

Could you visit me in dreams? That would cheer me. Sweet to see friends in the night, however short the time.

I am afraid of being infected," they tell him, "but I am even more afraid of being left alone.

He was well aware of what an ass he was. Only Roman could tolerate him, really. Stupid, charming bastard.

It was not something you could call friendship; it was at once less and more. The sharing of such experiences created a bond and set them apart from all others. It was not something that could be told to another person. There were no words with a meaning both could understand which would impart the physical horror or the heights and depths of emotion.

Friendship eased the heart and the mind, but there were times when the touch of arms around you healed an ache within that nothing else reached.

Whatever will happen will happen, but choose your companions with care. Choose them because you like to look at them and you like the sound of their voices, and they have profound secrets in them that you wish to know. In other words, choose them because you love them. Otherwise you will not be able to bear their company for very long.

I'm beginning to think that maybe it's not just how much you love someone. Maybe what matters is who you are when you're with them.

It's true that writing is a solitary occupation, but you would be surprised at how much companionship a group of imaginary characters can offer once you get to know them.

She could have taken root. She wanted to be a Rose, somebody's Rose, their Rose—and she would have been company for the flowers. She had new memories to give them, new people to tell them of, people who would help tend to them and keep them. But they warned her. They saved her. Hazel was nobody's Rose. For better or for worse.