Best 602 quotes in «affection quotes» category

He despised causeless affection, just as he despised unearned wealth. They professed to love him for some unknown reason and they ignored all the things for which he could wish to be loved. He wondered what response they could hope to obtain from him in such manner—if his response was what they wanted.

He'd seen a different side of her today, he realized with pleasure, recalling the sight of her standing on the bow of the Orpheus, holding on to the shrouds with the wind in her face and a look of pure delight in her eyes. She'd been a vision with those skirts flapping wildly around her legs, so different from his long-standing perception of her. And when they rounded the point, something had awakened inside him. An emotion he'd not felt in a very long time- a deep, genuine affection that reached beyond the surface thrill of the conquest.

He had big plans for you," I said with tears rolling down my face. "That's why it took so long." Sir Alistair stopped and looked back, looking with affection at Marco, Yipes, and me. "We all play our part. Some roles just dray on a little more than others.

He laughed and came forward impulsively to kiss her—his affection a potent thing, a flourish of light. She was smiling, her tears feeling fresh on her face. He smelled of sweat and roses. She felt it in the palms of her hands, in her loins. It was right. It was Southampton she had wanted all along.

He longed for her more than he could say. It was a wonderful thing to be able to truly want someone like this –the feeling was so real, so overpowering. He hadn’t felt this way in ages. Maybe he never had before. Not that everything about it was wonderful: his chest ached, he found it hard to breathe, and a fear, a dark oscillation, had hold of him. But now even that kind of ache had become an important part of the affection he felt. He didn’t want to let that feeling slip from his grasp. Once lost, he might never happen across that warmth again. If he had to lose it, he would rather lose himself.

.....Her eyebrows are the living example of nature.

He stepped down trying not to look long at her, as though she were the sun, yet he saw her as one sees the sun, without looking.

He wasn't the type for displays of affection, either verbal or not. He was disgusted by couples that made out in the hallways between classes, and got annoyed at even the slightest sappy moments in movies. But I knew he cared about me: he just conveyed it more subtly, as concise with expressing this emotion as he was with everything else. It was in the way he'd put his hand on the small of my back, for instance, or how he'd smile at me when I said something that surprised him. Once I might have wanted more, but I'd come around to his way of thinking in the time we'd been together. And we were together, all the time. So he didn't have to prove how he felt about me. Like so much else, I should just know.

He was not his father, and this was not his work; but he was the master, and this was his masterpiece.

He wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize how much he cared for her, and he told her so, and she called him an idiot, and he declared that it was the finest thing that ever a man has been called.

His mind drifted back to times past. He missed the companionship of his old pack. He had grown up in the pack and knew each wolf by sight and smell. They had played and hunted, bred and cared for the young, and fought and died together. His bonds to the other wolves had been very close – particularly his mate. She had been the strongest and the swiftest female. She had reared their young well and had always yelped and whined with affection after he returned from the hunt. He remembered the comfort he had felt on so many starry nights, lying beside her with his head resting upon her neck in a sign of affection. However, she was gone now, and he could not bring her back. The two-legged ones had seen to that.

How do you make me smile when it seems like there’s nothing in the whole world to smile about?

How do you ever hold on to anybody?

i DO NOT WHY BUT i KEEP THINKING OF YOU, WHAT DID YOU EVER DO TO ME? I have tried na nikashindwa kukudelete from my system, IMEKATAA. i KNOW YOU HAVE TRIED TOO, IT LEAVES ME WONDERING WHAT IS THESE. It can only be explained by the gods.

How is it that there was never you until there was and then all was you?

Ich bin kein Kind, ich bin nicht niedlich; warum soll man so jemanden streicheln?

I don’t hesitate to say that damage or destruction of the land-community is morally wrong, just as Leopold did not hesitate to say so when he was composing his essay, “The Land Ethic,” in 1947. But I do not believe, as I think Leopold did not, that morality, even religious morality, is an adequate motive for good care of the land-community. The primary motive for good care and good use is always going to be affection, because affection involves us entirely. And here Leopold himself set the example. In 1935 he bought an exhausted Wisconsin farm and, with his family, began its restoration. To do this was morally right, of course, but the motive was affection. Leopold was an ecologist. He felt, we may be sure, an informed sorrow for the place in its ruin. He imagined it as it had been, as it was, and as it might be. And a profound, delighted affection radiates from every sentence he wrote about it.

Humanism is my Religion, Good is my adoption , Bad is my Elimination, Acceptance is my Decision, Love is My Gift , Relation is my Affection ,Truth is My Strength, Help Is My Credit , Knowledge is My Treasure

I can sense your love, why leave me in darkness? Beguile me for your amusement, stealing my soul without kisses. You are the sun and I, the moon. Your beauty is reflected in my eyes. When we are apart, I am extinguished in the blackness of these skies.

I crave the violence of your affection. I ache for the way it jumbles my insides and makes my heart feel like it's harboring a thunderstorm. I've never felt more alive in all my time on this earth, as I have, being underneath your touch.

I didn't find out until I became a father. You don't just LOVE your children. You FALL in love with them.

If the good so loved and desired do appear possible and feasible in the attaining, then it exciteth the passion of hope, which is a compound of desire and expectation : when we look upon it as requiring our endeavour to attain it, and as it is to be had in a prescribed way, then it provokes the passion of courage or boldness, and concludes in resolution. Lastly, If this good be apprehended as preset, then ti provoketh to delight or joy. If the thing itself be present, the jy is greatest. If but the idea of it, either through the remainder or memory of the good that is past, or through the fore-apprehension of that which we expect, yet even this also exciteth our joy. And this joy is the perfection of all the rest of the affections, when it is raised on the full fruition of the good itself(575).

I fell in love and then I became love.

If it's public, it's not bonding.

If my hand on yours trembles it's because bodies never lie.

If not love, what?

I have started looking into the mirror more often. I have pigmentation, a few blemishes. My body never looked like this, never felt like this- heavy, tired, exhausted, swollen, achy, weak. There are a million reasons to not like myself right now. But one reason that outgrows all these emotions- I am the first home to my baby. A woman can dislike her body, can she really dislike her baby’s abode? Therefore, I love the way it’s swelling- it gives my baby’s tiny arms and legs more space. I love the way it’s pigmenting, it gives my baby better protection from the sun. I love the way it’s exhausted, it prioritises baby’s nutritional requirements over mine. And I would love all the stretch marks in the end too. That’s my baby’s name plate at his first home.

I have never been sad because my losses are my profits

If you like someone, you wish them well. But. If you love someone, you breathe wellness into them.

I hope you read this, whoever you are, and imagine that there is a hypothetical person out there who needs your love, has been waiting silently, patiently for it all his life, is flawed and downright ugly at times and yet would have just eaten up any tiny bit of affection you had been willing to give, had you ever stopped your own happy life to notice. And then imagine that this hypothetical person is real, because he probably is.... Wish I’d met you. Wish I wasn’t your hypothetical. But you’re reading this, which means a few minutes ago, I went into that bathroom and pulled the trigger. You probably heard it. Sorry. You’re welcome. Thank you. And please. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

I like the word 'affection' because it signifies something habitual, and we are soon to meet to try whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.

I love our Lord with all my heart. But He wants me to love Our Lady in a special way and to go to Him with my hand in Mary's. My affection for her is like that of a tiny child for its mother. You know, Nines, how a baby clings to his mother's skirt when he is learning to walk? Well, that is the way Our Lord wants me to cling to Our Lady's blue mantle.

It is a great mistake to suppose that a woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange of affection. There is not on earth a more merciless extractor of love from others than a thoroughly selfish woman; and the more unlovely she grows, the more jealously and scrupulously she extracts love, to the uttermost farthing.

In her experience it was very difficult to offer a man affection and kindness without giving him the impression you were also offering a lay.

Innately affectionate, and innately afraid of unreturned affection, and indomitably unwilling to let any of that stop her.

Interest in temperament as an individual difference dimension of importance in one's behavior leads to reanalysis of both theoretical and methodological considerations relating to the construct.

In the Mars-and-Venus-gendered universe, men want power and women want emotional attachment and connection. On this planet nobody really has the opportunity to know love since it is power and not love that is the order of the day. The privilege of power is at the heart of patriarchal thinking. Girls and boys, men and women who have been taught this way almost always believe love is not important, or if it is, it is never as important as being powerful, dominant, in control, on top-being right. Women who give seemingly selfless adoration and care to the men in their lives appear to be obsessed with 'love,' but in actuality their actions are often a covert way to hold power. Like their male counterparts, they enter relationships speaking the words of love even as their actions indicate that maintaining power and control is their primary agenda.

It had taken her a good deal of time before she believed that she was worth all that fierce affection he lavished upon her. To have it stolen away unjustly was that much more cruel.

It is in the imperceptible space between that which touches and that which is touched that one body can be felt, no matter how closely, to be different from another.

It is the privilege of affection to see a friend in all the situations of his soul.

[I]t is not by being richer or more powerful that a man becomes better; one is a matter of fortune, the other of virtue. Nor should she deem herself other than venal who weds a rich man rather than a poor, and desires more things in her husband than himself. Assuredly, whomsoever this concupiscence leads into marriage deserves payment rather than affection.

It may well have been, too, that the smiling moderation with which she faced and answered these blasphemies, that this tender and hypocritical rebuke appeared to her frank and generous nature as a particularly shameful and seductive form of that criminal attitude towards life which she was endeavouring to adopt. But she could not resist the attraction of being treated with affection by a woman who had just shewn herself so implacable towards the defenceless dead; she sprang on to the knees of her friend and held out a chaste brow to be kissed;...

It may be difficult to believe," he said. "I know it may have come across as... romantic, because of how I act when I get her letters. Because of that dress she sent me. But sometimes two people have a deep connection. It makes romance seem trivial. It isn't about anything carnal. It's about souls. About the deepest part of who you are as a person.

It's the people who know you and love you that save you.

It’s not Love. But what fault is it of mine if my affections do not become Love? Very much my fault, I would say, when I can live from day to day on mad purity, blind pity… Make a scandal of meekness. But the violence of the senses and intellect that has confounded me for years was the only way.

It’s okay to let go,” she whispered when I had a long day. All I wanted was a cold, hard drink—something to cool my nerves and the flame inside me. “Just give yourself to me, Vinny. Don’t worry about drinking. Get drunk on me. Take me.

I use the chopsticks to outline the biggest heart possible. Then I use the Sweet'N Low packets to fill it in. I borrow some from two other tables when I run out. When I'm done, I point to the heart on the table. "This," I say, "is only about one ninety-millionth of how I feel about you." She laughs. "I'll try not to take it personally," she says. "Take what personally?" I say. "You should take it very personally." "The fact that you used artificial sweetener?" I take a Sweet'N Low and fling it at her. "Not everything is a symbol!" I shout.

I understood. I suffered. But whose sake was I suffering for? I kept thinking of Señor Saguaro's question: Whose affection do you value more, hers or the others'?

I’ve come to think that flourishing consists of putting yourself in situations in which you lose self-consciousness and become fused with other people, experiences, or tasks. It happens sometimes when you are lost in a hard challenge, or when an artist or a craftsman becomes one with the brush or the tool. It happens sometimes while you’re playing sports, or listening to music or lost in a story, or to some people when they feel enveloped by God’s love. And it happens most when we connect with other people. I’ve come to think that happiness isn’t really produced by conscious accomplishments. Happiness is a measure of how thickly the unconscious parts of our minds are intertwined with other people and with activities. Happiness is determined by how much information and affection flows through us covertly every day and year.

I've written you sixty-seven love poems. Here’s another one for you. But really, for me. These poems are the candles that I light with the fire you have ignited in me. I place this candle here and another there so even if the stars have argued with the moon and are sulking away in a corner, you can still find your way to me. Sixty-eight poems now. What does the future hold for us? Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect? I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more. For what is the point of love if by lighting these candles our own flame loses its brightness? I know the good is more than the bad. Much more. I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.