Oldest Friendship Quotes

He was the strangest of strangers in that he was also her oldest friend.

Why do you keep coming?" she asked. "Because," he said. Click on this word, he thought, and you will find links to everything it means. Because you are my oldest friend. Because, once, when I was at my lowest, you saved me. Because I might have died without you or ended up in a children's psychiatric hospital. Because I owe you. Because, selfishly, I see a future where we make fantastic games together, if you can manage to get out of bed. "Because," he repeated.

It seems to me that your oldest friends can offer a glimpse of who you were from a time before you had a sense of yourself.

Gaps don't/just happen./There is a/generative element/inside them,/a welling motion/ as when cold/waters shoulder/up through/warmer oceans./And where gaps/choose to widen,/coordinates warp,/even in places/constant since/the oldest maps.

The largest wall in the living room is full of framed photos, depicting stories of war, peace, friendship, and love—everything in the last six decades displayed on a single wall.

He feels a tiny spark of emotion, seeing his own photo here, right in the middle of the war and the friendship zone—if there’s any zoning at all among the chaotically placed frames, that is.

And you never fall behind?” “Of course I do. But I always feel guilty when that happens. After all, my journal is the oldest and most loyal friend I have. And it never interrupts me when I’m speaking,” he added, with a boyish grin.

Our friendship had been a long-distance one since we went off to college. But I never met another woman who meant to me what she did. No one else could make me laugh like she could. So my oldest friend remained my best friend, despite however many miles kept us apart, and it was for that reason that I made her my maid of honor.

. . . you know who Polworth is?" "Your best mate," said Robin. "He's my oldest mate," Strike corrected her. "My best mate . . . " For a split second he wondered whether he was going to say it, but the whisky had lifted the guard he usually kept upon himself: why not say it, why not let go? " . . . is you." Robin was so amazed, she couldn't speak. Never, in four years, had Strike come close to telling her what she was to him. Fondness had had to be deduced from offhand comments, small kindnesses, awkward silences or gestures forced from him under stress. She'd only once before felt as she did now, and the unexpected gift that had engendered the feeling had been a sapphire and diamond ring, which she'd left behind when she walked out on the man who'd given it to her. She wanted to make some kind of return, but for a moment or two, her throat felt too constricted. "I . . . well, the feeling's mutual," she said, trying not to sound too happy.

Friendship is a difficult thing to define. Oscar here is my oldest friend. How would you define friendship, Oscar?" Oscar grunts slightly, as though the answer is obvious. "Friendship is about choice and chemistry. It cannot be defined." "But surely there's something more to it than that." "It is a willingness to overlook faults and to accept them. I would let a friend hurt me without striking back," he says, smiling. "But only once." De Souza laughs. "Bravo, Oscar, I can always rely on you to distill an argument down to its purest form. What do you think, Dayel?" The Indian rocks his head from side to side, proud that he has been asked to speak next. "Friendship is different for each person and it changes throughout our lives. At age six it is about holding hands with your best friend. At sixteen it is about the adventure ahead. At sixty it is about reminiscing." He holds up a finger. "You cannot define it with any one word, although honesty is perhaps the closest word-" "No, not honesty," Farhad interrupts. "On the contrary, we often have to protect our friends from what we truly think. It is like an unspoken agreement. We ignore each other's faults and keep our confidences. Friendship isn't about being honest. The truth is too sharp a weapon to wield around someone we trust and respect. Friendship is about self-awareness. We see ourselves through the eyes of our friends. They are like a mirror that allows us to judge how we are traveling." De Souza clears his throat now. I wonder if he is aware of the awe that he inspires in others. I suspect he is too intelligent and too human to do otherwise. "Friendship cannot be defined," he says sternly. "The moment we begin to give reasons for being friends with someone we begin to undermine the magic of the relationship. Nobody wants to know that they are loved for their money or their generosity or their beauty or their wit. Choose one motive and it allows a person to say, 'is that the only reason?'" The others laugh. De Souza joins in with them. This is a performance. He continues: "Trying to explain why we form particular friendships is like trying to tell someone why we like a certain kind of music or a particular food. We just do.

18. If thou desire to continue friendship in any abode wherein thou enterest, be it as master, as brother, or as friend; wheresoever thou goest, beware of consorting with women. No place prospereth wherein that is done. Nor is it prudent to take part in it; a thousand men have been ruined for the pleasure of a little time short as a dream. Even death is reached thereby; it is a wretched thing. As for the evil liver, one leaveth him for what he doeth, he is avoided. If his desires be not gratified, he regardeth (?) no laws.

Dismissing women as “strident,” “harsh,” “bossy,” whatever, is one of the oldest tricks in the “Get Women To Shut Up” book.

The most trusted and loyal friendships in your life, will always be your oldest and longest friendships.

She's my mother. How do you say no to family?" Marie gets a dark look on her face. "There's a difference between relatives and family. You can be related to someone; that is an accident of genetics. Relatives are pure biology. But family is action. Family is attitude. That woman..." Marie's voice drips with venom. "Is NOT your family. WE are your family. That woman is just your relative." Hedy's mouth drops, and Caroline's eyes fly open so wide I think they might get stuck. "Don't hold back there, Marie," Hedy says, finding her voice. "I'm sorry, but..." Marie's eyes fill with tears. "Oh no!" Caroline leans over and takes Marie's hand. Marie shakes it off. "I hate her. I hate that she had the best daughter on the planet and never appreciated her and wasn't ever there for her and never once did anything for her. You guys don't know. She was the most self-absorbed narcissistic cold person..." "She gave me Joe." "But..." she says. I raise my hand. "She. Gave. Me. JOE. Whatever other bullshit happened, the most important thing in my life growing up was Joe. He made me who I am, he helped me find my calling, he was a gift, and everything else is just beyond my ability to get upset about." "You could get a little upset," Caroline says. "It takes nothing away from Joe, and how important he was to you, to acknowledge that your mother failed you in almost every way," Hedy says. "I think you should tell her to go fuck herself," Marie says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms like a petulant child. I don't know that I've ever seen her so furious. "You guys don't get it, I was THERE. I MET HER. Wanna know how she screws in a lightbulb? Holds it up in the air and lets the universe just revolve around her." This makes the three of us bust out laughing. "Oh, Marie, I love you. Thank you for being so on my side." It does mean the world to me that my oldest friend is so protective.

Known as “Leni,” Helene Bertha Amalie Riefenstahl was born on August 22, 1902. During the Third Reich she was known throughout Germany as a close friend and confidant of the Adolf Hitler. Recognized as a strong swimmer and talented artist, she studied dancing as a child and performed across Europe until an injury ended her dancing career. During the 1920’s Riefenstahl was inspired to become an actress and starred in five motion pictures produced in Germany. By 1932 she directed her own film “Das Blaue Licht.” With the advent of the Hitler era she directed “Triumph des Willens” anf “Olympia” which became recognized as the most innovative and effective propaganda films ever made. Many people who knew of her relationship with Hitler insisted that they had an affair, although she persistently denied this. However, her relationship with Adolf Hitler tarnished her reputation and haunted her after the war. She was arrested and charged with being a Nazi sympathizer, but it was never proven that she was involved with any war crimes. Convinced that she had been infatuated and involved with the Führer, her reputation and career became totally destroyed. Her former friends shunned her and her brother, who was her last remaining relative, was killed in action on the “Eastern Front.” Seeing a bleak future “Leni” Riefenstahl left Germany, to live amongst the Nuba people in Africa. During this time Riefenstahl met and began a close friendship with Horst Kettner, who assisted her with her acknowledged brilliant photography. They became an item from the time she was 60 years old and he was 20. Together they wrote and produced photo books about the Nuba tribes and later filmed marine life. At that time she was one of the world's oldest scuba divers and underwater photographer. Leni Riefenstahl died of cancer on September 8, 2003 at her home in Pöcking, Germany and was laid to rest at the Munich Waldfriedhof.

She's my oldest friend, and just like relationships, friendships are never perfect. Putting pressure on them to be perfect only ensures they won't survive. It's not easy being an adult and seeing someone you love and respect make opposite choices from you. It doesn't mean either of us is wrong - it just requires not comparing. Which sometimes we're better at than other times" -Mom

That’s what I told Gulley that morning when she called me on her way to work, and she agreed. Her oldest son, Jackson, is also in junior high, and we agreed it’s not for the faint of heart or the insecure. It’s a new stage of parenting that is incredibly exhausting mentally, with all manner of absurd scenarios we couldn’t have imagined back when we were parenting during the toddler years. Those years were more physically exhausting, and I think Gulley and I survived only because we had each other.

So Tawang it was for three summers. Three spectacular summers, new friendships and an accidental adventure that is still fresh in my mind. Tawang was and is special in so many ways. Ten thousand feet above sea level, home to the oldest monastery in Asia, with clouds that floated right into the military barracks.

But being the oldest, it’s like, well, of course Ari can handle it. I’m like a miniature grown-up. And I don’t know if I want to be that. No one asked me if I wanted to. It shouldn’t be automatic that the older kid has to shoulder all the heavy stuff and the younger kid just gets to skateboard through life, covered head to toe in helmets and knee pads and elbow pads.

Maybe I was already too late, but there were only a handful of people in the world I’d run into a burning building for. Angelo was one of them. Billie and Angelo were my oldest friends, my fucking family, and sure, we’d fought for near half our friendship, but that didn’t mean the love had ever died.

He finished as he did everything, carefully, completely. That was why he was the oldest and most formidable. He paid attention to the smallest of details. He walked with them for a few more minutes, ensuring that they were all fine, before leaving them with a casual wave and a feeling of friendship. Mikhail turned away from them, the smile fading from his lips. The night concealed the hunter in him, the dark, terrible purpose in his eyes, the cruel edge to his sensuous mouth. His muscles rippled with raw power, flexed and contracted with his enormous strength. He moved around the corner and simply disappeared. His speed was incredible, without compare.

I can’t explain what I don’t understand. It’s never happened with any other Skill-healing I’ve witnessed. Only between you and me. Whatever injury I take from you appears on me.” He stood, his arms crossed on his chest. He wore his own face, and Amber’s painted lips and rouged cheeks looked peculiar now. His eyes seemed to bore into me. “No. Explain why you hid this from me! Why you couldn’t trust me with the simple truth. What did you imagine? That I would demand you blind yourself that I might see?” “I…no!” I braces my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands. I could not recall when I had felt more drained. A steady pulse of pounding pain in my temples kept pace with my heartbeat. I felt a desperate need to recover my strength, but even sitting still was demanding more than I had to give. I wanted to topple over onto the floor and surrender to sleep. I tried to order my thoughts. “You were so desperate to regain your sight. I didn’t want to take that hope from you. My plan was that once you were strong enough the coterie could try to heal you, if you would let them. My fear was that if I told you I couldn’t heal you without losing my sight, you’d lose all hope.” The last piece of the truth was angular and sharp-edged in my mouth. “And I feared you would think me selfish that I did not heal you.” I let my head lower onto my folded arms. The Fool said something. “I didn’t hear that.” “You weren’t meant to,” he replied in a low voice. Then he admitted, “I called you a clodpoll.” “Oh.” I could barely keep my eyes open. He asked a cautious question. “After you’d taken on my hurts, did they heal?” “Yes. Mostly. But very slowly.” My back still bore the pinkish dimples in echo of the ulcers that had been on his back. “Or so it seemed to me. You know hun body has been since that runaway healing the coterie did on me years ago. I scarcely age and injuries heal overnight, leaving me exhausted. But they healed, Fool. Once I knew what was happening, I was more careful. When I worked on the bones around your eyes, I kept strict control.” I halted. It was a terrifying offer to make. But in our sort of friendship, it had to be made. “I could try to heal your eyes. Give you sight, lose mine, and see if my body could restore mine. It would take time. And I’m not sure this is the best place for us to make such an attempt. Perhaps in Bingtown, after we’ve sent the others home, we could take rooms somewhere and make the attempt.” “No. Don’t be stupid.” His tone forbade any response. In his long silence, sleep crept up on me, seeping into every part of my body. It was an engulfing demand the body makes, one that knows no refusal. “Fitz. Fitz? Look at me. What do you see?” I prised my eyelids open and looked at him. I thought I knew what he needed to hear. “I see my friend. My oldest, dearest friend. No matter what guise you wear.” “And you see me clearly?” Something in his voice made me lift up my head. I blinked blearily and stared at him. After a time, he swam into focus. “Yes.” He let out his pent up breath. “Good. Because when I touched you, I felt something happen, something more than I expected. I reached for you, to call you back, for I feared you were vanishing into the Skill-current. But when I touched you, it wasn’t as if I touched someone else. It was like folding my hands together. As if your blood suddenly ran through my veins. Fitz, I can see the shape of you, there in your chair. I fear I may have taken something from you.” “Oh. Good. I’m glad.” I closed my eyes, too weary for surprise. Too exhausted for fear. I thought of that day, long ago, when I had drawn him back from death and pushed him into his own body again. In that moment, as I had left the body I had repaired for him, as we had passed each other before resuming our own flesh again, I’d felt the same. A sense of oneness. Of completion. I recalled it but was too weary to put it into words. I put my head down on the table and slept.

I can’t explain what I don’t understand. It’s never happened with any other Skill-healing I’ve witnessed. Only between you and me. Whatever injury I take from you appears on me.” He stood, his arms crossed on his chest. He wore his own face, and Amber’s painted lips and rouged cheeks looked peculiar now. His eyes seemed to bore into me. “No. Explain why you hid this from me! Why you couldn’t trust me with the simple truth. What did you imagine? That I would demand you blind yourself that I might see?” “I…no!” I braces my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands. I could not recall when I had felt more drained. A steady pulse of pounding pain in my temples kept pace with my heartbeat. I felt a desperate need to recover my strength, but even sitting still was demanding more than I had to give. I wanted to topple over onto the floor and surrender to sleep. I tried to order my thoughts. “You were so desperate to regain your sight. I didn’t want to take that hope from you. My plan was that once you were strong enough the coterie could try to heal you, if you would let them. My fear was that if I told you I couldn’t heal you without losing my sight, you’d lose all hope.” The last piece of the truth was angular and sharp-edged in my mouth. “And I feared you would think me selfish that I did not heal you.” I let my head lower onto my folded arms. The Fool said something. “I didn’t hear that.” “You weren’t meant to,” he replied in a low voice. Then he admitted, “I called you a clodpoll.” “Oh.” I could barely keep my eyes open. He asked a cautious question. “After you’d taken on my hurts, did they heal?” “Yes. Mostly. But very slowly.” My back still bore the pinkish dimples in echo of the ulcers that had been on his back. “Or so it seemed to me. You know how my body has been since that runaway healing the coterie did on me years ago. I scarcely age and injuries heal overnight, leaving me exhausted. But they healed, Fool. Once I knew what was happening, I was more careful. When I worked on the bones around your eyes, I kept strict control.” I halted. It was a terrifying offer to make. But in our sort of friendship, it had to be made. “I could try to heal your eyes. Give you sight, lose mine, and see if my body could restore mine. It would take time. And I’m not sure this is the best place for us to make such an attempt. Perhaps in Bingtown, after we’ve sent the others home, we could take rooms somewhere and make the attempt.” “No. Don’t be stupid.” His tone forbade any response. In his long silence, sleep crept up on me, seeping into every part of my body. It was an engulfing demand the body makes, one that knows no refusal. “Fitz. Fitz? Look at me. What do you see?” I prised my eyelids open and looked at him. I thought I knew what he needed to hear. “I see my friend. My oldest, dearest friend. No matter what guise you wear.” “And you see me clearly?” Something in his voice made me lift up my head. I blinked blearily and stared at him. After a time, he swam into focus. “Yes.” He let out his pent up breath. “Good. Because when I touched you, I felt something happen, something more than I expected. I reached for you, to call you back, for I feared you were vanishing into the Skill-current. But when I touched you, it wasn’t as if I touched someone else. It was like folding my hands together. As if your blood suddenly ran through my veins. Fitz, I can see the shape of you, there in your chair. I fear I may have taken something from you.” “Oh. Good. I’m glad.” I closed my eyes, too weary for surprise. Too exhausted for fear. I thought of that day, long ago, when I had drawn him back from death and pushed him into his own body again. In that moment, as I had left the body I had repaired for him, as we had passed each other before resuming our own flesh again, I’d felt the same. A sense of oneness. Of completion. I recalled it but was too weary to put it into words. I put my head down on the table and slept.

The right kind of sad girl is an iteration of one of the oldest feminine tropes there is: the damsel in distress. A sad girl is still lovable, because a sad girl can be rescued. Until it’s too late. A sad girl whose sadness consumes her becomes a tragic, romantic figure. She becomes her pain, and her pain becomes a thing we wrap ourselves in and claim. She becomes an emblem, a vessel, a warning. A patron saint for the next generation of sad girls to worship and emulate. And in the process, her complexity and humanity are annihilated.