Best 608 quotes in «longing quotes» category

I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.

...and one might suspect too that A. Cretan said : "To long to read!" “My library is an archive of longings.” ― Susan Sontag" “There is a space between man's [sic] imagination and man's [sic] attainment that may only be traversed by his longing.” ― Khalil Gibran [sick]

I didn't have that kind of friendship, the forever kind of friendship that will last your whole life through, no matter what.

I didn't feel lonely until there was something to yearn for. Loneliness and longing are two sides of the same coin.

I do,” Drew admitted, his eyes devouring my body appreciatively. “But with you…I want so much more, Summer. So much more than you’re willing to give me.” He paused, “Every single touch, every single look you give me, I cherish.

I’d never dreamed anybody could love me the way he did. And even when he proved it to me time and again – I still could hardly believe it was true.

I am isolated. I sit in a glass ball, I see people through a glass wall. I scream, but they do not hear me. - Ellen West

I believe that we are arks of the covenant and our true nature is not rage or deceit or terror or logic or craft or even sorrow. It is longing.

I could never stop comparing the way it was with Gertrud and the way it had been with Hanna; again and again, Gertrud and I would hold each other, and I would feel that something was wrong, that she was wrong, that she moved wrong and felt wrong, smelled wrong and tasted wrong. I thought I would get over it. I hoped it would go away. I wanted to be free of Hanna. But I never got over the feeling that something was wrong.

I felt bad for trying to live a happy, full life, while my heart was buried in a dead man’s chest.

If he would see me again, I would die happy. In the meantime, I was merely dying.

I could wish to spy the nakedness of their hearts, and through the different disguises of customs, climates, and religion, find out what is good in them, to fashion my own by. It is for this reason that I have not seen the Palais Royal - nor the facade of the Louvre - nor have attempted to swell the catalogues we have of pictures, statues, and churches - I conceive every fair being as a temple, and would rather enter in, and see the original drawings and loose sketches hung up in it, than the Transfiguration of Raphael itself.

If I had one night, I'd hold you in my arms, Find redemption, no more contention, Keeping you close. Too long, years gone, Wasted away. One night, our night, Remember this. I won't forget you, No I won't forget you.—Red-Eyed Loons

If i think about us logically, there is no chance for us. But logic doesn't produce magic.

If I was ever glad to have gone, I was never glad to go.

I do not want to eat or drink, or i will lose the taste of you in my mouth

If only they could listen with their hearts & not their minds, maybe then they would understand that often times it's the emotions not spoken that are longing to be heard.

If you do not want to write, at least spit on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and send it to me. You are not taking any notice of me at all. God forgive you – all I wanted was a few words from you.

If you think of the moon as already used, it’s not as difficult to take in, because then it’s just like you, Traveled the world like you, Seen the globe like you, But, it’s still bright.

I gaze out of the window at the lanes of red taillights streaming towards the hills, the city laid out in anonymous grids and quadrants, the view confirming that I was much more alone than I thought, and all those red lights inspired nothing more than a sense that I, too, should be fleeing somewhere.

If we could imagine, while we live them, to what mundane moments nostalgia manages to stick itself...

I go backwards and forwards, recapturing the past, wondering about the future—and, most unreasonably, I find myself longing for the past more than for the future.

I guess that's the magic of songs. The very best ones, they let you forget that they were written by someone about something that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Instead, you bend them to your life, matching the "you" of the song with whomever you want. The songs feel so much like your pain, your love, your longing, that you forget they were born from someone else's.

I hated the gnawing longing that accompanied having everything.

I had to do something about my longing, so I got up, went to the kitchen in my nightgown, peeled a pound of potatoes, boiled them up, sliced them, fried them in butter, salted them generously and ate every bite of them - asking my body the whole while if it would please accept the satisfaction of a pound of fried potatoes in lieu of the fulfillment of lovemaking. My body replied, only after eating every bite of food: "No deal, babe.

I go fishing in my mind. I put out bait, the bait of my own longing, my desire, and my hunger for connection, for a tug of something alive at the end of a line. Something that I may have to struggle with to pull in, but that will be wild and important to me, whether I keep it or let it go.

If you were mine, I'd never leave you, Prudence. I couldn't.

I have sought so much Your being Behind everything I knew In the new Beginnings, And the fearful mornings, When anxiety and hope Live side by side And that My shadow Only aspires to lie With your shadow.

I have late night conversations with the moon; he tells me about the sun, and I tell him about you.

I have laughter and amazement, not search results. I have unexpected longings, not hierarchical ratings.

I know this doesn't exactly make me unique, but I love the internet. I love it. I think the way I feel about the internet is the way some people feel about the ocean. It's so huge and unknowable, but also totally predictable. You type a line of symbols and click enter, and everything you want to happen, happens. Not like real life, where all the wanting in the world can't make something exist

I hung a picture of him above my bed and learned by hand the internal workings of the female combustion engine.

I lay down on one of [the rocks] in the fetal position. When I awoke it was after one a.m. and the tide was rising higher. My body was coated in salt and ocean foam. I felt like I was part of the rock and part of the ocean, and I wondered if this was how Sappho felt, even in her deepest desperation, part of the earth, like that desperation and longing or eternal cosmic want was something to be celebrated–something natural–holy even, or at least, not just something to be endured.

I know that touching you will be understanding my fingers for the first time.

I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.

I long to embrace, to include in my own short life, all that is accessible to man.

I know he wasn’t perfect… But he did the best impression of it I’ve ever seen.

I long for the day when I hear the music without any song.

I may not know quite what you are, but I know what you are not… You are not the kind who leaves my mind and is easily forgot.

I love you, he thought, looking at Win. I love every part of you, every thought and word... the entire complex, fascinating bundle of all the things you are. I want you with ten different kinds of need at once. I love all the seasons of you, the way you are now, the thought of how much more beautiful you'll be in the decades to come. I love you for being the answer to every question my heart could ask. And it seemed so easy, once he capitulated. It seemed natural and right. Kev wasn't certain if he was surrendering to Win or to his own passion for her. Only that there was no more holding back. He would take her. And he would give her everything he had, every part of his soul, even the broken pieces.

I mean, by such flightiness, something that feels unsatisfied at the center of my life — that makes me shaky, fickle, inquisitive, and hungry. I could call it a longing for home and not be far wrong. Or I could call it a longing for whatever supersedes, if it cannot pass through, understanding. Other words that come to mind: faith, grace, rest. In my outward appearance and life habits I hardly change — there’s never been a day that my friends haven’t been able to say, and at a distance, “There’s Oliver, still standing around in the weeds. There she is, still scribbling in her notebook.” But, at the center: I am shaking; I am flashing like tinsel. Restless. I read about ideas. Yet I let them remain ideas. I read about the poet who threw his books away, the better to come to a spiritual completion. Yet I keep my books. I flutter; I am attentive, maybe I even rise a little, balancing; then I fall back.

I'm comming to You. You are blazing. I'm giving You a rose. It embalms sweet. I'm givin a kiss... I melt of You. I melt and flow with You. Like an ice in a spring river. I melt and stay. Sun will vaporise us. It will take us up into clouds. And then we both will fall. Drop by drop. We'll fall out of the sky. We'll raise from dew to fog. Every sunny warm morning. We'll let the wind pull us with him. Cooling our selves in forest shadows. There in silence we'll cool off One from another. But in stormy days and nights. We'll billow and crash. One to another. Like crazy and wild. We'll churn into white foam. Ashore in sands we'll wait For the yellow october leaves Into them we'll fall asleep. We'll fall into and freeze. We'll freeze and melt again And flow and raise and fall again. Over and over again Even if we were in separete glasses of water. We would moove together and whisper. Even if in the oceans mixed. We would moove together and sing. I'm comming to You. You are blazing. I'm giving You a rose It embalms sweet. ... If I'll ever meet You. I' ll take our time... To dance dance dance dance with You...

I'm going to have to get an entirely new social scene if I want to avoid him,' she said, hunting for evidence of him amongst her friends' feeds. I made a sympathetic face, but my heart leapt up onto her, beat its fists on her heart, yelled, Me Me Me!

I miss you like the mismatching sock I can't find. You're out there somewhere.

I miss you so much in these wee morning hours, when the depth of the night sets my spirit free. When the forest is dark, and there doesn’t have to be anything in the world but the beauty I pull out of it. I miss you throughout the day, as I come across glories and wonders that could easily overwhelm me, but just dull because you’re not here to enjoy them.

I missed all the people and places I didn’t know if I would ever see again – my grandparents and their cute little house at Basin Head, where we used to visit the beach everyday and I would run barefoot over the singing sands and swim in the impossibly enormous ocean.

I missed her so much I wanted to die: a hard, physical longing, like a craving for air underwater. Lying awake, I tried to recall all my best memories of her—to freeze her in my mind so I wouldn’t forget her—but instead of birthdays and happy times I kept remembering things like how a few days before she was killed she’d stopped me halfway out the door to pick a thread off my school jacket. For some reason, it was one of the clearest memories I had of her: her knitted eyebrows, the precise gesture of her reaching out to me, everything. Several times too—drifting uneasily between dreaming and sleep—I sat up suddenly in bed at the sound of her voice speaking clearly in my head, remarks she might conceivably have made at some point but that I didn’t actually remember, things like Throw me an apple, would you? and I wonder if this buttons up the front or the back? and This sofa is in a terrible state of disreputableness.

I miss that smile covered with the tears of longing.

In love, nothing exists between heart and heart. Speech is born out of longing, True description from the real taste. The one who tastes, knows; the one who explains, lies. How can you describe the true form of Something In whose presence you are blotted out? And in whose being you still exist? And who lives as a sign for your journey?

In my heart, there’s only him and me left…I selfishly put everyone else aside and forget them. All that’s left behind is everything he and I shared. For the first time, no one can bother us. The first time where I don’t have any worries and can start to love him again... -Ruo Xi