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#age

Read through the most famous quotes by topic #age




You roll back to me. ↗


— Ernest Hemingway


#love #page- #love

The most significant conversations of our lives occur in silence. ↗


— Simon Van Booy


#language #silence #love

there is [...] a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love ↗


— Samuel Beckett


#love #love

Make my happiness--I will make yours. ↗


— Charlotte Brontë


#marriage #love

I always loved you, Will, whatever you did. And now I need you to do for me what I cannot do for myself. For you to be my eyes when I do not have them. For you to be my hands when I cannot use my own. For you to be my hear when mine is done with beating. No, said Will wildly. No, no, no. I will not be those things. Your eyes will see, your hands will feel, your hear will continue to beat. But if not, Will- If I could tear myself in half, I would-that half of me might remain with you and half follow Tessa- Half of you would be no good to either of us, said Jem. ↗


— Cassandra Clare


#clockwork-princess #jem-carstairs #page- #love

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement. ↗


— Virginia Woolf


#love #love

Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary, imperial joy and sorrow of human existence, the dreamed as well as the lived— what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death? ↗


— Louise Glück


#age

Concerning the popularity of vampire books: I don't get it. I think people should read about bloody, heart-singing, mind-searing spirituality. Live your heart’s song, not its drippings. ↗


— Sandy Nathan


#new-age #spirituality #vamlpire #age

People don't love each other at our age, Marthe—they please each other, that's all. Later on, when you're old and impotent, you can love someone. At our age, you just think you do. That's all it is. ↗


— Albert Camus


#old-age #age

the battered woman--for she wore a skirt--with her right hand exposed, her left clutching at her side, stood singing of love--love which has lasted a million years, she sang, love which prevails, and millions of years ago, her lover, who had been dead these centuries, had walked, she crooned, with her in May; but in the course of ages, long as summer days, and flaming, she remembered, with nothing but red asters, he had gone; death's enormous sickle had swept those tremendous hills, and when at last she laid her hoary and immensely aged head on the earth, now become a mere cinder of ice, she implored the Gods to lay by her side a bunch of purple heather, there on her high burial place which the last rays of the last sun caressed; for then the pageant of the universe would be over. ↗


— Virginia Woolf


#love #romance #age






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