One of the most curious things I encountered in selecting the quotes below was their remarkable inconsistency. At times I even found them sharply contradictory. No surprise, really. For there are few subjects as peculiarly subjective, or ambiguous, as love in general—and unrequited love in particular. Which explains why the tone of these quotes ranges from bitterness and cynicism to the most heart-rending melancholy and despair. Unquestionably, there are few experiences more painful than realizing that the person for whom you have such adoring sentiments doesn’t, can’t, or won’t return your so-committed, so-impassioned feelings.As a lover it’s difficult not to project your boundless feelings of fondness onto the beloved. But when it becomes blatant that these feelings aren’t recognized—and if so, certainly aren’t reciprocated—the ensuing disappointment and hurt can be immeasurable. The famous line, “She [or he] doesn’t even know I exist,” is so familiar because the experience itself is so common. Which one of us hasn’t at some time experienced the pangs of a love that’s not reciprocated?
قمة العظمه…..أن تبتسم وفي عينيك الف دمعه…
The pinnacle of excellence is to smile when your eyes have one thousand tears
Arabic Proverb (via arabswagger)
Mitch Albom, Have a Little Faith: The Story of a Last Request (via larmoyante)
I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.
John Green, Looking for Alaska
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Vladimir Nabokov (via restaurer)
I knew it the first of the summer,
I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn’t you be my friend?
Couldn’t we sit in the twilight,
Couldn’t we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was not a word of folly
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects—
The moon and the worlds above,—
And our talk was tinctured with science,
And everything else, save love.
A wholly Platonic friendship
You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
Though both were in their youth
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth!
What would you have done, I wonder,
Had I gone on my knees to you
And told you my passionate story,
There in the dusk and the dew?
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long—
My story of hopeless loving—
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered,
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning,
And I said a calm good-night.
But now when I sit in the twilight,
Or when I walk by the sea
That friendship, quite Platonic,
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk, the dew;
For the beautiful summer vanished,
For the moonlight walks—and you.
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
To be in love and to say nothing about it – this seems to me the most elegant (and perhaps the only sensible) form of romantic attachment. It’s a sentiment poetry and music only occasionally address – the best pop song on this theme is The Band’s “It Makes No Difference” with the great line, “Now there’s no love as true as the love that dies untold” – but Walter Raleigh’s “The Silent Lover” keeps its own counsel even more eloquently.
Passions are likened best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion;
Since, if my plaints serve not to approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection,
I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.
Thus those desires that aim too high
For any mortal lover,
When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.
Yet, when discretion doth bereave
The plaints that they should utter,
Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne’er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret, passion:
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
The trouble is not that I am single and likely to stay single, but that I am lonely and likely to stay lonely.
Charlotte Brontë (via vanished)
Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…….and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
Andrea Gibson (via jexjes-jessica)
Tempted and twenty
and lighter than air
We were limitless then
but then I didn’t care
‘cause the river still ran
at the end of your street
and the earth didn’t turn
unless churned by our feet
Before I feared flying
and you fell from grace
there was something like hope
in the look on your face
when you showed me your scars
and I showed you my lines
and the blood turned to ink
down the length of your spine
But my second-hand heart
and your third-person views
wore the shine from our souls
and the soles from our shoes
‘til the world wouldn’t wait
and the river ran dry
and each hollow I love you
came out a goodbye
And I’ve written you young
frozen happy and free
just one more pretty crack
in my glass memory
And I’ve written me honest
still lonely and scared
We were limitless then
but then I didn’t care
If we must be memories
moments carved out of time
by careless blades indifferent
to wounds they leave behind
let us be of golden days
and hearthside autumn nights
of eyes that caught each flame
and robbed it of its living light
If we must be whispers
along empty midnight halls
faded smiles in gilded frames
to line their somber walls
let our breath then find the weight
of words we left unsaid
and send them forth as warnings
to the sleeping from the dead
If we must be monuments
down cemetery paths
poets, lovers, harbingers
reduced to epitaph
let no marble letter
stand a sad regret betrayed
If we must be memories
let us be yet unmade
As I grow older, I sometime sit and reflect, on those meaningful moments of my youth, and of those passionate and at times lustful encounters, and wonder why they lasted but a moment in time.
Perhaps it was a need that simply needed to be filled, of youthful and ranging hormones, and yet not all of those moments were confined, too indiscretions of youth.
I ask myself, were they simply lustful interludes, or were they meaningful encounters that enriched my life? A capsulated moment filled with passion love, and understanding, and yet not quit a relationship, and if pricked or torn quickly evaporates, and those intimate words whispered only moments ago, drown in a sea of recrimination.
And yet I wouldn’t give up a moment of those brief encounters, for those meaningful affairs of the heart, with all of it’s ranging passions and lustful interludes as given me insight, into my own soul, and a better understanding of what a true relationship should be, in that it can never be judged within the momentary glow of a candle, or within the sweet taste of wine, and it should never be confused with a whispered word of passion, or the lustful moan of lovemaking.
For those are simply wonderful distractions, snapshots, that in time will quickly fade, like the dawning of a day with its magnificent
sunrise. It’s the residue of those moments, within those brief encounters that shape our understanding of how a true relationship should be, they are the guideposts to a more meaningful encounter, and without them we cannot judge, we cannot discriminate, and by their very nature they simply run their course, in an awkward moment that quickly ends… as if it never was.
Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness,” “joy,” or “regret.” Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, “the happiness that attends disaster.” Or: “the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.” I’d like to show how “intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members” connects with “the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.” I’d like to have a word for “the sadness inspired by failing restaurants” as well as for “the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.” I’ve never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I’ve entered my story, I need them more than ever.
Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex (via talkativolive)