Wistful Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
the-word-miss-is-wistful-as-is-word-wistful-for-that-matter-they-both-have-sighs-embedded-in-them-that-iss-sound-which-also-sounds-like-if-joan-wickersham
i-want-horse-plough-chickens-too-just-one-cow-with-wistful-moo-noel-coward
the-smile-he-gave-her-was-wistful-just-little-lift-to-his-mouth-you-are-fighter-yes-always-and-sometimes-im-whole-army-jr-ward
now-that-i-near-80-i-realize-with-wistful-pleasure-that-on-many-occasions-i-was-10-20-40-even-50-years-ahead-my-time-benoit-mandelbrot
now-that-i-near-80-i-realize-with-wistful-pleasure-that-on-many-occasions-i-was-10-20-40-even-50-years-ahead-my-time
summertime-season-when-thought-sand-in-your-crack-makes-one-wistful-ellen-wilsonpruitt
for-thousands-years-father-son-have-stretched-wistful-hands-across-canyon-time-alan-valentine
nothing-is-more-wistful-than-scent-lilac-nor-more-robust-than-its-woody-stalk-for-we-must-remember-that-it-is-tree-as-well-as-flower-we-must-try-stevie-smith
he-is-romeo-he-is-heartbroken-every-word-is-wistful-when-he-says-o-teach-me-how-i-should-forget-to-think-i-for-first-time-see-what-big-deal-is-about-shakespeare-nina-lacour
i-sometimes-look-into-face-my-dog-stan-see-wistful-sadness-existential-angst-when-all-he-is-actually-doing-is-slowly-scanning-ceiling-for-flies-merrill-markoe
cant-call-em-zombies-anymore-sighed-manny-he-seemed-almost-wistful-now-we-gotta-be-all-politically-correct-its-like-cold-wars-never-happened-david-se-zapanta
i-always-have-been-will-remain-someone-who-loves-real-3d-substantial-books-and-i-dont-believe-that-its-wistful-nostalgic-interest-like-vinyl-collectors-its-not-same-thing
so-often-we-have-kind-vague-wistful-longing-that-promises-jesus-should-be-true-the-only-way-really-to-enter-into-them-is-to-believe-them-with-william-barclay
i-had-not-thought-violets-late-the-wild-shy-kind-that-springs-beneath-you-feet-in-wistful-april-days-alice-dunbar-nelson
tods-pale-brows-arched-halfway-up-his-forehead-he-looked-suddenly-achingly-wistful-she-knows-not-what-she-says-maybe-not-but-i-was-starting-to-get-pretty-good-idea-rachel-vincent
the-cooler-days-have-brought-wistful-mood-upon-him-the-smell-coalsmoke-in-air-at-night-old-times-dead-years-for-him-such-memories-are-bitter-ones-cormac-mccarthy
april-19-and-now-it-is-spring-birds-are-singing-wistful-notes-jubilant-and-bare-streets-no-need-for-coats-skipping-ropes-bicycles-thin-new-moon-elizabeth-smart
i-never-saw-sad-men-who-looked-with-such-wistful-eye-upon-that-little-tent-blue-we-prisoners-called-sky-and-at-every-happy-cloud-that-passed-in-such-strange-freedom-by-oscar-wild
it-takes-little-to-make-child-happy-that-it-is-pity-in-world-full-sunshine-pleasant-things-that-there-should-be-any-wistful-faces-empty-hands-lonely-little-hearts-louisa-may-alco
soon-late-every-dogs-masters-memory-becomes-graveyard-peopled-by-wistful-little-furry-ghosts-that-creep-back-unbidden-at-times-to-semblance-their-olden-lives-albert-payson-terhun
to-be-english-long-secretly-for-prince-philips-heyday-is-at-least-partly-to-be-wistful-for-fairer-more-meritocratic-land-where-jobs-were-for-life-social-mobility-was-real
so-what-are-you-doing-tonight-me-janie-laughs-homework-course-you-want-company-carries-looking-wistful-do-you-have-homework-to-do-of-course-wether-i-lisa-mcmann
babbit-was-average-father-he-was-affectionate-bullying-opinionated-ignorant-rather-wistful-like-most-parents-he-enjoyed-game-waiting-till-victim-was-clearly-wrong-then-virtuously
many-in-hollywood-viewed-public-persona-young-debbie-reynolds-as-demure-vulnerable-to-be-complete-facade-pianist-oscar-levant-once-quipped-shes-elizabeth-taylor
i-dont-know-writer-who-doesnt-feel-some-sense-glamour-magic-complex-wistful-sadness-emanating-from-expats-twenties-in-france-some-sadness-course-is-that-we-werent-there
the-lonely-wistful-revisionism-memories-is-as-gratingly-repetitive-as-snow-ice-in-canada-i-avoid-them-both-at-all-costs-memories-canada-brian-dambrosio
when-man-does-not-have-firm-calm-lines-on-horizon-his-life-mountain-forest-lines-as-it-were-then-mans-innermost-will-becomes-agitated-preoccupied-friedrich-nietzsche
about-10-percent-time-i-miss-3-to-5-percent-game-i-look-back-im-happy-that-i-played-im-not-wistful-you-miss-big-games-i-miss-locker-room-camaraderie-sometimes-i-miss-lifestyle
i-should-have-known-what-you-would-do-jem-said-in-low-voice-i-always-know-what-you-will-do-i-should-have-known-you-would-put-your-hands-into-fire-and-i-should-have-known-you-woul
Almondine To her, the scent and the memory of him were one. Where it lay strongest, the distant past came to her as if that morning: Taking a dead sparrow from her jaws, before she knew to hide such things. Guiding her to the floor, bending her knee until the arthritis made it stick, his palm hotsided on her ribs to measure her breaths and know where the pain began. And to comfort her. That had been the week before he went away. He was gone, she knew this, but something of him clung to the baseboards. At times the floor quivered under his footstep. She stood then and nosed into the kitchen and the bathroom and the bedroom-especially the closet-her intention to press her ruff against his hand, run it along his thigh, feel the heat of his body through the fabric. Places, times, weather-all these drew him up inside her. Rain, especially, falling past the double doors of the kennel, where he'd waited through so many storms, each drop throwing a dozen replicas into the air as it struck the waterlogged earth. And where the rising and falling water met, something like an expectation formed, a place where he might appear and pass in long strides, silent and gestureless. For she was not without her own selfish desires: to hold things motionless, to measure herself against them and find herself present, to know that she was alive precisely because he needn't acknowledge her in casual passing; that utter constancy might prevail if she attended the world so carefully. And if not constancy, then only those changes she desired, not those that sapped her, undefined her. And so she searched. She'd watched his casket lowered into the ground, a box, man-made, no more like him than the trees that swayed under the winter wind. To assign him an identity outside the world was not in her thinking. The fence line where he walked and the bed where he slept-that was where he lived, and they remembered him. Yet he was gone. She knew it most keenly in the diminishment of her own self. In her life, she'd been nourished and sustained by certain things, him being one of them, Trudy another, and Edgar, the third and most important, but it was really the three of them together, intersecting in her, for each of them powered her heart a different way. Each of them bore different responsibilities to her and with her and required different things from her, and her day was the fulfillment of those responsibilities. She could not imagine that portion of her would never return. With her it was not hope, or wistful thoughts-it was her sense of being alive that thinned by the proportion of her spirit devoted to him. "ory of Edgar Sawtelle" As spring came on, his scent about the place began to fade. She stopped looking for him. Whole days she slept beside his chair, as the sunlight drifted from eastern-slant to western-slant, moving only to ease the weight of her bones against the floor. And Trudy and Edgar, encapsulated in mourning, somehow forgot to care for one another, let alone her. Or if they knew, their grief and heartache overwhelmed them. Anyway, there was so little they might have done, save to bring out a shirt of his to lie on, perhaps walk with her along the fence line, where fragments of time had snagged and hung. But if they noticed her grief, they hardly knew to do those things. And she without the language to ask.

David Wroblewski
almondine-to-her-scent-memory-him-were-one-where-it-lay-strongest-distant-past-came-to-her-as-if-that-morning-taking-dead-sparrow-from-her-jaws-before-she-knew-to-hide-such-thing
He couldn't have known it, but among the original run of The History of Love, at least one copy was destined to change a life. This particular book was one of the last of the two thousand to be printed, and sat for longer than the rest in a warehouse in the outskirts of Santiago, absorbing the humidity. From there it was finally sent to a bookstore in Buenos Aires. The careless owner hardly noticed it, and for some years it languished on the shelves, acquiring a pattern of mildew across the cover. It was a slim volume, and its position on the shelf wasn't exactly prime: crowded on the left by an overweight biography of a minor actress, and on the right by the once-bestselling novel of an author that everyone had since forgotten, it hardly left its spine visible to even the most rigorous browser. When the store changed owners it fell victim to a massive clearance, and was trucked off to another warehouse, foul, dingy, crawling with daddy longlegs, where it remained in the dark and damp before finally being sent to a small secondhand bookstore not far from the home of the writer Jorge Luis Borges. The owner took her time unpacking the books she'd bought cheaply and in bulk from the warehouse. One morning, going through the boxes, she discovered the mildewed copy of The History of Love. She'd never heard of it, but the title caught her eye. She put it aside, and during a slow hour in the shop she read the opening chapter, called 'The Age of Silence.' The owner of the secondhand bookstore lowered the volume of the radio. She flipped to the back flap of the book to find out more about the author, but all it said was that Zvi Litvinoff had been born in Poland and moved to Chile in 1941, where he still lived today. There was no photograph. That day, in between helping customers, she finished the book. Before locking up the shop that evening, she placed it in the window, a little wistful about having to part with it. The next morning, the first rays of the rising sun fell across the cover of The History of Love. The first of many flies alighted on its jacket. Its mildewed pages began to dry out in the heat as the blue-gray Persian cat who lorded over the shop brushed past it to lay claim to a pool of sunlight. A few hours later, the first of many passersby gave it a cursory glance as they went by the window. The shop owner did not try to push the book on any of her customers. She knew that in the wrong hands such a book could easily be dismissed or, worse, go unread. Instead she let it sit where it was in the hope that the right reader might discover it. And that's what happened. One afternoon a tall young man saw the book in the window. He came into the shop, picked it up, read a few pages, and brought it to the register. When he spoke to the owner, she couldn't place his accent. She asked where he was from, curious about the person who was taking the book away. Israel, he told her, explaining that he'd recently finished his time in the army and was traveling around South America for a few months. The owner was about to put the book in a bag, but the young man said he didn't need one, and slipped it into his backpack. The door chimes were still tinkling as she watched him disappear, his sandals slapping against the hot, bright street. That night, shirtless in his rented room, under a fan lazily pushing around the hot air, the young man opened the book and, in a flourish he had been fine-tuning for years, signed his name: David Singer. Filled with restlessness and longing, he began to read.

Nicole Krauss
he-couldnt-have-known-it-but-among-original-run-the-history-love-at-least-one-copy-was-destined-to-change-life-this-particular-book-was-one-last-two-thousand-to-be-printed-sat-fo
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