Philip Howard Quotes

Can you even imagine not hugging?

We live in a kissy society.

I love touching. I always touch people.

I've noticed people in India have developed a habit of hugging around people. I don't understand it now. I wanted to be hugged when I was young. Now, if someone wants to hug me, I feel only claustrophobic.

It's not necessarily the best situation for me to try to hug someone unless I really know them. And I don't really know anybody, so.

I've had girls that kissed me on the cheek. People get so pumped, and so excited, they don't see you as a person. Which is fair. Sometimes, I don't see people as people. But at the end of the day, you can't put your hands on me unless I hug you first.

Touch is the most fundamental sense. A baby experiences it, all over, before he is born and long before he learns to use sight, hearing, or taste, and no human ever ceases to need it. Keep your children short on pocket money but long on hugs

Hugging is not my shtick.

One of the ways we interact with other human beings and form social bonds is through touch, and probably most of us are not aware of the extreme importance of touch.

There's nothing like being hugged or held or just anything as simple as that.

I've tried everything but celibacy, and I really want to know what it feels like to be touched by someone with a mental touch and not a physical touch.

Yes, people do come across the street to say hi, but as they approach and get near, my perception of space begins to dissolve, and a new interest takes over that is primarily emotional, and with it comes a desire to touch, which may be a human interest, but not the interest of my work.

I hug employees all the time. I'm a huge contact person. Touch is an extremely important part of the human condition.

As a species of animal that evolved to make connections and work together, it feels strange to suppress our desire for contact. People enjoy touching each other, and find joy in seeing each other in person - but now we have to keep our physical distance.

I can be walking down the street, and someone will stop me and ask me for one of my hugs. They feel like I'm their friend, which I love - though sometimes my kids get a little weirded out by it.

I am a hug-and-kiss person.

The thing is, I'm used to handshakes. Every time someone comes for a hug, I'm very confused. I'm told that I give out the worst hugs, too.

There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox - are all acts of tenderness.

A hug is like a strangle you haven't finished yet.

And we stood like that. The joining of hands is highly underrated in the acts of intimacy. You kiss acquaintances or colleagues, casually to say hello or good-bye. You might even kiss a close friend chastely on the lips. You might quickly hug anyone you knew. You might even meet someone at a party, take him home and sleep with him, never to see him or hear from him again. But to join hands and stand holding each other that way, with the electricity of possibilities flowing between you? The tenderness of it, the promise of it, is only something you share with a few people in your life.

The loving touch, like music, often utters the things that cannot be spoken.

Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both:---touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am's private own: not spirit, soul; the liquorish and ungirdled mind is anyone's to take in any any darkened hallway of this earthly tenement. But let flesh touch with flesh, and watch the fall of all the eggshell shibboleth of caste and color too.

If you want to touch me, Kendall, touch me. Don't hide behind those little girl slaps.

I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?