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Love Letters Quotes

Browse 65 quotes about Love Letters.

Love Letters Quotes

“I don't want to get landed in an affair which might get beyond my control before I knew where I was. [...] But darling, Virginia is not the sort of person one thinks of in that way. There is something incongruous and almost indecent in the idea. I have gone to bed with her (twice), but that's all. Now you know all about it, and I hope I haven't shocked you [...]”

“I enjoyed your intimate letter from the Dolomites. It gave me a great deal of pain – which is I've no doubt the first stage of intimacy – no friends, no heart, only an indifferent head. Never mind: I enjoyed your abuse very much [...] But I will not go on else I should write you a really intimate letter, and then you would dislike me, more, even more, than you do.”

“What I should really like to do would be to take you to some absurdly romantic place, ― vain dream, alas! What with Leonard and the Press ― Besides, by romantic I mean Persia or China, not Tintagel or Kergarnec. Oh what fun it would be, and Virginia's eyes would grow rounder and rounder, and presently it would all flow like water from a Sparklets siphon, turned into beautiful bubbles.”

“PABLO, The reason that I love thee remains strange & blurry Do I love thee for thy creativity? For the songs thou has written so carefully? Do I love thee for thy strangeness & mystery? Each layer of thy persona is a cure to my melancholy Allow me to worship thy beauty from afar My fated heartache...my unreachable star. Letters To Pablo (forever unpublished)”

“It is December in Paris. It was already December when I set out from Luanda, leaving the radiance of your gaze behind me. And it will be December yet, even after the month is over, and then will come only more December and winter, and December again and always the same, until l come back to the Sunny Season, and the land which is lit everywhere, always, by your gaze.”

“I shall be your poet! I do not want to be a poet for others; make your appearance, and I shall be your poet. I shall eat my own poem, and that will be my food. Or do you find me unworthy? Just as a temple dancer dances to the honor of the god Gudutl, so I have consecrated myself to your service; light, thinly clad, limber, unarmed, I renounce everything. I own nothing; I desire to own nothing; I love nothing; I have nothing to lose-but have I not thereby become more worthy of you, you who long ago must have been tired of depriving people of what they love, tired of their craven sniveling and craven pleading. Surprise me-I am ready”

“Though these words will never find you, I hope that you knew I was thinking of you today….. and that I was wishing you every happiness. Love Always, The girl you loved once.”

“Ah, it is a strange thing - Love's little fingers on the heart, making tenderness out of bitterness and changing weakness into strength! When once a woman's eyes, with understanding love, have looked into the very depths of a man's soul, he need seek no farther for the Philosopher's Stone. As if by magic, the love of the many comes with the love of one. One flash of the love-light makes the whole world new, one chord of Love's music changes all sound to song, and one touch of Love's hand so glorifies the earth that it needs no other alchemy to make it truly gold.”

“...as we are endowed. ...with rhetorics. ...none will deny. ...of innocence. ...towards scribbling. ...of love lines. ...and of lust. ...to what seems like male. ...to what seems like female. ...in those days. ...I mean nothing. ...but in high school. ....even me. ...I can't deny.”

“Valentine’s Day isn’t just for couples—it’s also the perfect occasion to shower yourself with love and appreciation. Whether it’s indulging in your favorite treats, binge-watching your favorite show, or simply enjoying some well-deserved relaxation, make sure to show yourself some appreciation. After all, who needs roses when you’ve got self-love blooming within you? So go ahead, be your own Valentine, and celebrate the most important relationship of all—the one you have with yourself!”

“Valentine's Day—the one day when even single folks get caught up in the swirl of romance. Whether you're showering your sweetheart with affection or indulging in some self-love, it's a time for heart-shaped chocolates, cheesy cards, & maybe even a spontaneous declaration of love. And let's not forget those anti-Valentine's Day parties for the rebels among us. No matter how you choose to celebrate, just remember: love comes in all shapes & sizes.”

“Ultimately no particular woman had ever seemed all that different from the rest. Until those letters. The sentences had looped around him with a spirit so artless and adorable, he had loved it, loved her, immediately. His thumb moved over the parchment as if it were sensitive living skin. "Mark my words, Audrey- I'm going to marry the woman who wrote this letter.”

“While still in prison, Castro continued corresponding with his wife Mirta. At the same time, he wrote affectionate letters to an attractive Cuban socialite, “Naty” Natalia Revuelta. For whatever reason, his letters became switched with both Mirta and “Naty” receiving the wrong letters. This little mistake, most likely brought about by the Prison Warden, led to both Mirta and Fidel filing for divorce. On May 15, 1955, Batista made a mistake that would cost him his presidency and change the course of Cuban history. Thinking that Fidel and his rebels were no longer a threat, Batista released Castro and the other political prisoners from jail. Castro’s marriage to Mirta failed primarily because her entire family opposed his political views, however his promiscuous ways certainly did not help. Mirta remained married to Fidel for a total of seven years. In 1955 after he was released from prison for attacking the Moncada Barracks, Fidel fled to Mexico. It was there, while in exile, that his divorce was finalized and Mirta was awarded custody of their son Fidelito.”

“Toutes ces pages n'ont pas toujours de date, encore moins de visage, mais elles supposent qu'un homme s'est assis devant une table, un stylo à la main, qu'il a pris le temps de chercher les mots, peut-être de me répondre. Nous écrivions bien je trouve, et qu'importe finalement que l'élan ait duré une heure, une semaine, un mois ou un an, je sens nos cœurs serrés d'alors, l'ombre de la guerre derrière nous, qui nous commande de vivre. [...] Il fallait que nous fassions des phrases amicales, amoureuses, fâcheuses et menteuses. Il nous fallait nous écrire pour raisonner et nous orienter dans ce monde. Nous allions dans les graves du drame, puis dans les aigus du bonheur. Tout est là, dans une valise.”

“Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.”

“And if the world asked me, what is love? I would not point to poems or stars or endless metaphors I would simply point to her. Because love is her. In every curve, in every laugh, in every silence. She is both the question and the answer. And she is the forever I didn’t know how to ask for, but was blessed to find.”

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind, California girl. Yet, I was afraid you would leave me behind. Alas, I’d rather run away than unveil my heart to you, just to be let down time and time again. For, it was never my intention to cut you out of my life. I just could not bring myself to you in the ways I needed to, and I could not let you know how much I needed you, nor could I tell the world. For, this kind of love surely would trigger the priests and knights to tear us apart. No matter, I will always long to look into your navy blue oceanic eyes, as you once looked into my sunset forest of hazel green.”

“Do you know it was four weeks yesterday that you went? Yes, I often think of you, instead of my novel; I want to take you over the water meadows in the summer on foot, I have thought of many million things to tell you. Devil that you are, to vanish to Persia and leave me here! [...] And, dearest Vita, we are having two water-closets made, one paid for by Mrs Dalloway, the other by The Common Reader: both dedicated to you.”