Longing (n.) at its first stirring drinks like Thor from a horn sunk in the sea: not because its object is infinite, but because the infinite can never become its object.
Longing (n.) proves no more immortality when it is for "that time we were in the Deer Park together" than when it is for an old pair of comfortable slippers.
Longing (n.) as infinitely inventive as love taught the son not to wrest a word from eternity's silence but to imitate his dead father's voice so perfectly that he was content with the likeness.
Longing (n.) cries out to the whole world, and when the world comes smiling to meet it, answers like the child: "Not this Mary — another Mary."
Longing (n.) at last wants only itself: “Now I long only for my first longing.”
Longing (n.) draws shy lovers closer and sets them farther apart: they meet more fully in dreams than face to face, beginning again exactly where they left off.
Longing (n.) before first love is a blindness that stares at the world: the youth sinks into himself, contemplates his own contemplation, yet keeps looking out.
Longing (n.) is no sweet longing in man and creation; for that, sin would first have to be disarmed.
Longing (n.) always implies the state one longs out of, which proclaims itself as anxiety — because longing alone is not enough to save.
Longing (n.) is a gift no one can give himself or buy even by selling everything, but once given, one can sell everything to buy it.
Longing (n.) can keep a wayfarer at the foot of an impassable mountain seventy years, a hundred and forty, until he dies away from his wishes and only the legend and the mountain remain.