Winifred Holtby Quotes

Missing rubs the soul raw.

As the presence of those we love is as a double life, so absence, in its anxious longing and sense of vacancy, is as a foretaste of death.

Why is the measure of love loss?

Lost in loneliness and pain. Black and unendurable, Thinking of you with every Corpuscle of my flesh, in Every instant of night And day.

Love itself cannot be divorced from the suffering which comes from being separated from the object of love.

I think living with the absence of someone we love is like living in front of a mountain from which a person - a speck in the distance, on some distance ridge - is perpetually waving.

Your absence has gone through me

It's the tragedy of loving, you can't love anything more than something you miss.

Grief is the agony of an instant; the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.

Our hours in love have wings; in absence, crutches.

Love and despair go hand in hand.

I miss the camera each moment and each day.

Being away from the game took a toll on my heart.

Despair is part of love.

My purpose, my whole life, had been to love him and be with him, to make him happy. I didn’t want to cause any unhappiness now—in that way, I decided it was probably better than he wasn’t here to see this, though I missed him so much at that moment the ache of it was as bad as the strange pains in my belly.

i miss you so much it's giving me a pain in my pancreas.

If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live

The truth is simple, you do not die from love. You only wish you did.

The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.

Sorrow is one of the vibrations that prove the fact of living.

No pain could match the emptiness of separation, no agony rivaled the unreality of not being with her.

Love was like rain: it turned into ice, or it disappeared. Now you saw it, now you couldn't find it no matter how hard you might search. Love evaporated; obsession was realer; it hurt, like a pin in your bottom, a stone in your shoe. It didn't go away in the blink of an eye. A morning phone call filled with regret. A letter that said, Dear you, good-bye from me. Obsession tasted like something familiar. Something you'd known your whole life. It settled and lurked; it stayed with you.

Is not absence death to those who love?

'T is sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside,-Jessy!

There is one pain, I often feel, which you will never know. It's caused by the absence of you.