Best 491 quotes in «intimacy quotes» category

Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee, Before I knew thy face or name

Until the notion of Helmet-Assisted Life catches on with more people, you may be seen as a threat if you wear a helmet during moments of intimacy. Yet it might also be true that relaxed intimacy cannot occur unless the head is fully protected.

Usually adult males who are unable to make emotional connections with the women they chose to be intimate with are frozen in time, unable to allow themselves to love for fear that the loved one will abandon them.

We always expect to experience things on an intimate level. We want to feel intimately, we want to love intimately, we want to breathe intimately. We invest ourselves in moments that reminds us of intimate connections and then we suffer because we are not experiencing it for ourselves. We yearn, we dream, we desire not realizing that love can be friendship too.

Was it wisdom? Was it knowledge? Was it, once more, the deceptiveness of beauty, so that all one’s perceptions, half-way to truth, were tangled in a golden mesh? Or did she lock up within her some secret which certainly Lily Briscoe believed people must have for the world to go on at all? Every one could not be as helter skelter, hand to mouth as she was. But if they knew, could they tell one what they knew? Sitting on the floor with her arms round Mrs. Ramsay’s knees, close as she could get, smiling to think that Mrs. Ramsay would never know the reason of that pressure, she imagined how in the chambers of the mind and heart of the woman who was, physically, touching her, were stood, like the treasures in the tombs of kings, tablets bearing sacred inscriptions, which if one could spell them out, would teach one everything, but they would never be offered openly, never made public. What art was there, known to love or cunning, by which one pressed through into those secret chambers? What device for becoming, like waters poured into one jar, inextricably the same, one with the object one adored? Could the body achieve, or the mind, subtly mingling in the intricate passages of the brain? or the heart? Could loving, as people called it, make her and Mrs. Ramsay one? for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.

Usiwe na wasiwasi, Peter. Hizo ni hisia zangu tu. Huwezi kuwa mpelelezi. Lakini, kusema ule ukweli, ningependa sana kuonana na John Murphy. Kuna kazi binafsi ningependa kumpa. Wewe unatoka Afrika, hujawahi kumwona?” Debbie alizidi kumshtua Murphy. “Nani?” Murphy aliuliza huku akitabasamu. “John Murphy wa Afrika.” “Sijawahi kumwona. Mbona unamuulizia hivyo?” Debbie alitulia. Kisha akarusha nywele ili aone vizuri. “Nampenda sana!” “Kwa nini?” “Simpendi kwa mahaba, lakini.” “Ndiyo. Kwa nini?” “OK. Nampenda kwa kipaji chake. Alichopewa na Mungu, cha ujasusi. Kusaidia watu.” “Ahaa!” Murphy alidakia, sasa akifikiri sana. “Murphy ana mashabiki wengi hapa Meksiko bila yeye mwenyewe kujua, kwa sababu ya kupambana na wahalifu wa madawa ya kulevya – hasa wa huku Latino. Tatizo lake haonekani. Wengi hudhani ni hadithi tu, kwamba hakuna mtu kama huyo hapa duniani.” “Hapana! Murphy yupo! Ni mfanyabiashara maarufu huko Tanzania. Lakini ndiyo hivyo kama unavyosema ... Haonekani!

We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants...I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. she walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. She knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention.

We became six people at a table in Hampton Court. We rose and walked together down the avenue. In the thin, the unreal twilight, fitfully like the echo of voices laughing down some alley, geniality returned to me and flesh. Against the gateway, against some cedar tree I saw blaze bright, Neville, Jinny, Rhoda, Louis, Susan and myself, our life, our identity. Still King William seemed an unreal monarch and his crown mere tinsel. But we – against the brick, against the branches, we six, out of how many million millions, for one moment out of what measureless abundance of past time and time to come, burnt there triumphant. The moment was all; the moment was enough.

We end up being unknown to those who have known us for too long.

We cannot all write like Lincoln or Shakespeare, but even the least gifted of us has the incredible instrument, our voice, to communicate the range of human emotions. Why would we deprive ourselves of that?

We come here (literally) reaching for intimacy and love. But it seems soon after our arrival, we're made to believe that they're luxuries not necessities.

We kissed again . . . . My clit began to twerk.

Well, I've kept you waiting long enough," he said, peering at me from that distance which drinking adds between people and which, at odd turns in the evening, seems closeness itself.

We need imperfection in our relationships, else we would die from the thickness of intimacy.

We're all princes and princesses, at 5, 50, or 100! It's never too late, we're never too old to rock the world and contribute! Reaching for intimacy in all relationships? Delicious.

We go from curiosity to a search for communion.

We were decadent in our intimacy. Leaving no inch of skin untouched lest a moment of rapture slip through our grasp. Thrusting and plunging, in dazed euphoria, the exquisite cravings for those carnal delights ravaged our souls until shamelessly, gasping lust tainted air, we discovered insatiability...

We washed her body, chanted, and stayed to witness the funeral director shrouding her and whisking her down the hall. I thought of the Zen teaching that talks about how all we need to do is allow ourselves and the world to change. Easy to say, I thought. And yet, here I was in the midst of my experience of fullness of the pain, grief, love, and joy of my grandma’s death. Everything did change. Everything I teach now I learned from my relationship with Mimi. Being deeply in relationship changes the world. I didn’t know then that my life would pivot to teaching others and to being with many, many Mimis.

We would not want the joy of physical and sexual intimacy to fade after years together. We need to also remember to keep our intellectual and emotional intimacy every bit as sacred.

What if, in the bigger scheme of things, God put the yearning and desire for our husbands, not so a man could fulfill all of it, but so we could catch a glimpse of what it means to fully and wholly yearn for God?

What I hate with women generally is the intimacy, the invasion of my innermost space, the slow strangulation of my art.

What I should have told him that day: love makes you an open wound, susceptible to infection. But he was young then and so was I, and I wanted their happiness more than my own. So I swallowed my pain and let myself pretend love could flourish if I didn't stand in its way.

What is the greatest need of human beings? What is it they seek from me always? Intimacy. I listen with all my being, I am completely interested. I seek momentarily a full communion of eyes, feelings, thoughts.

When a man and woman are in love,some decisions and questions are answered in silence.

When an individual trusts another sufficiently to expose the true self--the deepest fears, the hidden desires--a powerful intimacy is born.

When sweet lullabies are whispered into the sky, my heart is filled with with the sorrow of time. So when the kiss of a midnight moon ends, drop sweet nothings to fill my ear. Too many years to be sincere, and too many lost favorites that were never there. A tear or two, and maybe three; apathy is-and may not be me.

We speak in Spanish when we make love. English seems an impossible language for intimacy.

when other characters mistake Sam and Dean for a couple, this is not just a crude attempt at homophobic humor. It also reflects that many Americans are not used to observing intimacy in people unless they're romantic partners. We joke about "bromances", because we struggle with the idea that men -- emotionally stoic and self-sufficient creatures -- can engage in tender and intimate relations with one another, especially if they are straight. Even if we think we're okay with the idea of men having sex with other men, we still may have to impulse to laugh at two men being caring and intimate friends. This tention comes out when the angel Zachariah yells in a fit of frustration that Sam and Dean are "psychotically, irrationally, erotically codependent on each other." Their intimacy and personal devotion to one another seems so deviant that it looks live a mental illness (or sexual tension) to Zacharaiah. Stacey Goguen, "Masculinity and Supernatural Love

When we are willing to explore our own experiences, we open the doorway to deeper connection and intimacy.

You know what’s so funny and sad about us human beings? . . . We are constantly torn between the all-consuming desire to be loved and the terrifying fear of being known. Deep inside we don’t believe the two things can exist together, that if anyone really knew us, they would surely never love us, so we spend our whole lives concocting this wonderful, plastic shell that we fight like madmen to keep pristine. But eventually the plastic cracks and what is inside is a raw, quivering mass of imperfect humanity that has always been lovely and precious enough for God Himself to love.

You may know where to touch her, but that doesn't mean you know how to touch her. Take time to learn what she truly desires.

You must admit: it's not easy to live with people willing to send you to exile or death, it's not easy to become intimate with them, its not easy to love them.

All couples must bear the strain of getting acquainted, having been, up to then, merely intimate.

We love those to whom we can tell our story.

When we were in bed, the only part of me she touched was my penis, because it was the most detached.

When you find real love — protect and preserve the sweetness and intimacy of your gift.

When you lay down with neglect & sleep around with excuses, you wake up with failure... When you marry your goals & remain intimate with your vision, you'll give birth to your dreams.

When you love someone, you end up caring about each and every person they love. When you hate someone, you end up caring about every single person who hates them.

When you open yourself up mentally, you do so only with someone you trust from the bottom of your heart, someone you feel very close to. To open yourself up in this way is an important step in overcoming mental problems.

When you’re honest, what compares with the gorgeous thrill of sex? What brings you the same sense of wonder, pleasure, and fulfilment? I can’t think of anything as good.

Whether you are married or have lived with someone for a time, look upon that person and know that, as much as you may love that individual, he or she is not your "better half." Yes, this popular term of this endearment can be a warm, comforting notion that speaks to intimacy and trust. but these people you care about so deeply aren't "half" of you at all. They do not fill in your blanks. You have no blanks. You are whole within yourself.

While I'd been plagued by nightmares of Jonathan's unrest in the hereafter, it was only now that I'd seen Adair again—and seen him so changed—that I could admit, even to myself, that it was him I daydreamed of, who I longed for, who I ached for, physically. That was how I'd betrayed Luke—in my desire for Adair. It wasn't so uncommon, was it? Living with one man while your mind is on another? Being unable to stop thinking of this other man who, for one reason or another, was not the one sitting beside you. Thinking of the way his eyes lit up when he saw you, of his wicked smile and what it was like when he held you, how you responded to the touch of his hands. In solitary moments, you remembered the little intimacies, the feel of his skin against yours, the way he liked to be touched, the velvet nap of his member, the way he tasted. You thought of him even though you could never be with him. His absence nagged like an itch you could never scratch.

While struggling with all the loss in her life, she mournfully thought, "If only I could forget..." But that would be too easy, wouldn't it? However, she did with most; she never got too close and she never stayed too long, but there she was...struggling with all the loss in her life.

Who hasn't been told "love you?" I don't put much stock in such words because it's the "I" that gives "love you" its true essence and intimate meaning, so unless someone can bring themselves to say "I love you," don't subtract from the significance by saying something less.

Why do we view the boundaries people create for themselves as challenges? Why do we see someone setting a limit and then try to push? Once, I was at a restaurant with a large group of people and the waitress kept touching me. It was really fucking annoying because I don't want to be touched like that unless we are in a sexual relationship. Every time she passed by, she would rub my shoulders or run her hand down my arm and I kept getting more and more irritated but I said nothing. I never do. Do my boundaries exist if I don't voice them? Can people not see my body, the mass of it, as one very big boundary? Do they not know how much effort went into this? Because I am not a touchy-feely person, I always feel this light shock, this surprise, really, when my skin comes into contact with another person's skin. Sometimes that shock is pleasant, like Oh, here is my body in the world. Sometimes, it is not. I never know which it will be.

With callused hands i tasted the softness of the moon in the coldest winds i discovered my soul's warmest fireplace in the roughness of his stubble the tenderest love.

With intimacy comes the possibility of “engulfment” or being taken hostage by the demands of others. We may have distorted perceptions of the “demands” and obligations placed upon us by those who claim to love us. Trusting that love to be unconditional is almost impossible for us, and we are always scanning for the unstated “subtext” or hidden “agenda” connected to this love.

With so much unknown in this life, how little it takes for a face, a grove of trees, an outcropping of stone to become familiar.

Women are fundamentally incapable of loving a man in the way that a man expects to be loved by a woman.

Women forget all the past moments of the most intimate moments and the good sex when they have the next level of best sex with someone else. They just need someone to take out their hidden fantasies.