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I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love.
I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love.
Our true identity is to love without fear and insecurity. Our higher potential finds us when we set our course read more
Our true identity is to love without fear and insecurity. Our higher potential finds us when we set our course in that direction. The power of love and compassion transforms insecurity. -Doc Childre.
If we discovered that we had only five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone read more
If we discovered that we had only five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to stammer that they loved them.
There is no love of life without despair of life.
There is no love of life without despair of life.
The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite read more
The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.
The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost.
The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost.
But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know of our own heart?
But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know of our own heart?
Love is the extra effort we make in our dealings with those whom we do not like and once you read more
Love is the extra effort we make in our dealings with those whom we do not like and once you understand that, you understand all. This idea that love overtakes you is nonsense. This is but a polite manifestation of sex. To love another you have to undertake some fragment of their destiny.
Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists.... When we are parted, we each feel the read more
Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists.... When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.
