Marcel Proust Quotes

I love us so incredibly, insanely deeply; it's almost unbearable to see what we do to ourselves.

It's more difficult to write a song about having your heart ripped out of your chest while you're in love. Because it lacks honesty. And the honesty comes through in the music, it really does.

Love hurts, love scars, love wounds, and mars.

I became aware that the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.

Love born of anxiety resembles a thorn shaped so that efforts to pull it out of one's flesh merely cause it to penetrate more deeply therein.

The deeper the feeling, the greater the pain

I was angry with myself because I still loved her, or at least I loved that dream of our togetherness. My feelings were unreasonable, irrational, and I couldn't change them. That hurt.

Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?

I love you, too." But this hopeful farewell does little to bring peace of mind, even now. Loving you has never been the problem. What's troubling me is how loving you may never be enough.

Rejection, though--it could make the loss of someone you weren't even that crazy about feel gut wrenching and world ending.

I love him," I said, but even to my own ears I didn't sound happy about it.

Sometimes love can be an ugly thing.

We made mad love shadow love random love and abandoned love. Accidentally like a martyr. The hurt gets worse, and the heart gets harder.

Some men die for lack of love…some die because of it. Think about it." - Daemon

Every artist is an unhappy lover.

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love; But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another; (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd; Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

There are so many worse things than death. Not to be loved or not to be able to love: that is worse.

The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.

The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs.

If jealousy was the vindaloo of love, I'd imagined her tongue burning, and such a fire forcing her to spill her truth.

But the humans weren't what made my steps falter as I walked through grass that had turned bright green with summer's touch. It was Dimitri. Always Dimitri. Dimitri, the man I loved. Dimitri, the Strigoi I wanted to save. Dimitri, the monster I'd most likely have to kill. The love we'd shared always burned within me, no matter how often I told myself to move on, no matter how much the world did think I'd move on. He was always with me, always on my mind, always making me question myself.

Do you know what hurts so very much? It's love. Love is the strongest force in the world, and when it is blocked that means pain. There are two things we can do when this happens. We can kill that love so that it stops hurting. But then of course part of us dies, too. Or we can ask God to open up another route for that love to travel.

Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.

When you have been just told that the girl you love is definitely betrothed to another, you begin to understand how Anarchists must feel when the bomb goes off too soon.