Quotes About Companionship

To throw awayan honest friend is, as it were, to throw your life away.

Someday, you will find the one who will watch every sunrise with you until the sunset of your life.

Friends are the flowers in the garden of life.

Best friends can turn a horrible day into one of the best days of your life.

Life is full of all sorts of people. You just need to know which hands to shake, which hands to hold and which hands to let go.

I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.

As I said, either friends or the country, some . . . either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life's daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both.

You have been my friends, replied Charlotte, that in itself is a tremendous thing...

One day, she ventured to the palace library and was delighted to find what good company books could be.

Can I hold your hand?" he asked. I put mine in his. "The universe is seeming really huge right now," he told me. "I need something to hold on to." "I'm here.

Maybe a friend is someone who wants your updates. Even if they're boring. Or sad. Or annoyingly cutesy. A friend says "Sign me up for your boring crap, yes indeed"--because he likes you anyways. He'll tolerate your junk

It is not mysterious to be home on a Saturday night, reading a novel in a pile of smelly golden retrievers.

I guess that is why they've been here. I needed them.

They planned to know one another when they were ancient and gray-"when we're doddering around with canes and have forgotten the names of our wives, we will still be Bassets,and still be young in our hearts.

The notebook was tattered, and on every fragile page Frankie could feel the fundamental connection between the boys. They were going through life together - whether the pranks they pulled were dumb or brilliant. She was going through life with no one.

I mean, if those are your friends you've got no need for enemies.

One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he was my particular person...I am not talking about fate. I don't believe in destiny or soul mates or the supernatural. I just mean we understood each other. All the way.

Like my parents. That's their life I just described—but then, there they were, talking on the phone about my dad massaging my mom's groin area after yoga; cuddling on the couch; holding hands and wearing stupid Great Dane paraphernalia. That's all we can realistically hope for.

My boyfriend is named Percocet." I say. "We're very close. I even went to Europe with him last summer.

Can I hold your hand?" he asked. "The universe is seeming really huge right now," he told me. "I need something to hold on to." "I'm here.

He was interested in the sudden friendship between two women so apparently dissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were always in each other's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss Lavish he believed he understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths of strangeness, though not, perhaps, of meaning.

Talk was like the vitamins of our friendship: Large daily doses kept it healthy.

They must live outside class, without relations or money; they must work and stick to each other till death. But England belonged to them. That, besides companionship, was their reward. Her air and sky were theirs, not the timorous millions' who own stuffy little boxes, but never their own souls.

It was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air.