Ian Mcewan Quotes

I have never waited for anything the way I've waited for today, when nothing will happen.

Half an ear cocked, something in me, all night, every night, is waiting for you to come home.

On one hand, it seems like I've waited a long time for this.

I want to tell you,' the voice on the phone said. 'My head is filled with things to say.' ... 'I don't mind,' Hal said softly. 'I could wait forever.' 'That's what you think,' the voice said. The connection was cut.

I hated waiting. If I had one particular complaint, it was that my life seemed composed entirely of expectation.

She waited for you in a thousand different ways.

so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

It's only terrible to have nothing to wait for.

Waiting is directed at nothing: any object that could gratify it would only efface it. Still, it is not confined to one place, it is not a resigned immobility; it has the endurance of a movement that will never end and would never promise itself the reward of rest; it does not wrap itself in interiority; all of it falls irremediably outside.

It comes so soon, the moment when there is nothing left to wait for.

A hush is over everything, Silent as women wait for love; The world is waiting for the spring.

I have always found it difficult to wait for things - whether it was to see my father or sailor brother, Alan, again after their long sea trips, or the chance of a better job, or even new curtains.

Two messengers covered with dust come to bid me fly, but I wait for him.

It's odd how people waiting for you stand out far less clearly than people you are waiting for.

I don't stretch my hand out anymore, but I never get tired of waiting for the next magic.

She was no stranger to waiting, after all. Her man had always made her wait.

Waiting is a dry desert between where we are and where we want to be. (Finding My Way Home)

The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.

I hate having to wait. I've got the thing done. I just want to see what happens.

Those who do not hope cannot wait; but if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.

If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.

Finished, it's finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished. Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there's a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap. I can't be punished any more. I'll go now to my kitchen, ten feet by ten feet by ten feet, and wait for him to whistle me. Nice dimensions, nice proportions, I'll lean on the table, and look at the wall, and wait for him to whistle me.

Every day brings a ship, Every ship brings a word; Well for those who have no fear, Looking seaward well assured That the word the vessel brings Is the word they wish to hear.

A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.

SEASONS PASSED, FALL AND WINTER and spring and summer. Leaves blew in through the open door of Lucius Clarke’s shop, and rain, and the green outrageous hopeful light of spring. People came and went, grandmothers and doll collectors and little girls with their mothers. Edward Tulane waited. The seasons turned into years. Edward Tulane waited. He repeated the old doll’s words over and over until they wore a smooth groove of hope in his brain: Someone will come; someone will come for you.