Pulling At My Heartstrings Quotes

His touch does strange things to me. It makes me feel things. Things I'm not supposed to feel. Things I can't allow myself to feel. It's like his fingers are strumming my heartstrings, pulling, plucking, twisting, and I'm helpless. Completely and utterly helpless.

As if this were not enough, Jesus finished his seeker-sensitive plea with a pull-at-your-heartstrings conclusion. “Any of you who does not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple.”8 Give up everything you have, carry a cross, and hate your family. This sounds a lot different than “Admit, believe, confess, and pray a prayer after me.

I looked inward at my heart. And indeed, there too, the criss-cross corsetry was slackened and gaping. I was all undone. Potentially, I could spill. Or tangle. And so I began to tug at my own heartstrings, pulling them up tight until there was just the right amount of tension at each criss and each cross. Then I bent down to my boots and laced them firmly too, first the left, then the right, finishing off on each side with a surgeon's shoelace knot.

How they pile the poor little craft mast-high with fine clothes and big houses; with useless servants, and a host of swell friends that do not care twopence for them, and that they do not care three ha’pence for; with expensive entertainments that nobody enjoys, with formalities and fashions, with pretence and ostentation, and with—oh, heaviest, maddest lumber of all!—the dread of what will my neighbour think, with luxuries that only cloy, with pleasures that bore, with empty show that, like the criminal’s iron crown of yore, makes to bleed and swoon the aching head that wears it! It is lumber, man—all lumber! Throw it overboard. It makes the boat so heavy to pull, you nearly faint at the oars. It makes it so cumbersome and dangerous to manage, you never know a moment’s freedom from anxiety and care, never gain a moment’s rest for dreamy laziness—no time to watch the windy shadows skimming lightly o’er the shallows, or the glittering sunbeams flitting in and out among the ripples, or the great trees by the margin looking down at their own image, or the woods all green and golden, or the lilies white and yellow, or the sombre-waving rushes, or the sedges, or the orchis, or the blue forget-me-nots. Throw the lumber over, man! Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need—a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing. You will find the boat easier to pull then, and it will not be so liable to upset, and it will not matter so much if it does upset; good, plain merchandise will stand water. You will have time to think as well as to work. Time to drink in life’s sunshine—time to listen to the Æolian music that the wind of God draws from the human heart-strings around us—time to—

Well, more specifically…one person. Before thinking it through, I pull out my phone and send off a text.

The Atlantic pulls at my heartstrings, as fondly as a bouquet of jasmine blossoms tied up in a bow. I fall before the rising waves, collecting the pearlescent seafoam. It's sacred, just for me, like a gift from a lover or my dearest friend. When I was little, I used to run into the Pacific for a moment of peace. It scared my mother silly watching her only daughter dive into the water's wrath. But I adored the sharp cold, the strength of the undertow, the reckless rush of the currents. The ocean could never hurt me. We were one. We still are, no matter how far from home I've come. My mother always said that, like the sea, I was chaos incarnate.

Can she not pull on my heartstrings, please? I don’t need to be played like that. And she is playing me.

The words from your diagnosis rang in my ears. The picture on the scan pulled at my heart. The words were muffled by the sound of my heart. The picture was silenced by the sound of my heart. Not from the sound of it racing. Not from the sound of it beating. From the sound of my heartstrings breaking.

My question falls out like a stunned whisper. “You love me?” She blinks, lips parting as she registers and rejects the joyous disbelief in my eyes. “D-did you not hear me? I said I can’t love you like you—” “You love me.” A smile blooms, pulling at my lips, pulling at my heartstrings. I’m smiling so hard, my jaw aches. “That’s what I heard.

but the fact that she’s here, with me, when she needs someone…It makes my heart swell, and I feel this fierce need to protect her. To pull her into my arms and tell her it will all be okay.

With that one tiny pull of the lips, I know he’s got my back, and he’ll always be there for me. I need tonight for me, so that I can give him my all. Tomorrow is a new day and a fresh start. Tomorrow I’ll put all my fears aside and be strong for us.

Judith: I didn’t want an ordinary life; I wanted more. I wanted to live by the sea, somewhere beautiful and wild, so I chose Cornwall, or did Cornwall choose me? I had only been there once in my life, but I had felt an instant magical connection, the rugged coastline pulled at my heartstrings, and the sea soothed my restless soul. It was the start of a love affair that I could not or would not ignore; all I had to do now was make these dreams come true.

He knew, by some spiritual sense—for the Creator never made another being so sensitive as this—he knew that no friendly hand was pulling at his heartstrings, and that an eye was looking curiously into him, which sought only evil, and found it. But he knew not that the eye and hand were mine! With the superstition common to his brotherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured with frightful dreams and desperate thoughts, the sting of remorse and despair of pardon, as a foretaste of what awaits him beyond the grave. But it was the constant shadow of my presence, the closest propinquity of the man whom he had most vilely wronged, and who had grown to exist only by this perpetual poison of the direst revenge! Yea, indeed, he did not err, there was a fiend at his elbow! A mortal man, with once a human heart, has become a fiend for his especial torment.

The Sleeves Off My Vest Despite much effort we do not agree, but what of this idea: I note your stare admiring this three-piece suit I wear, its subtle pinstripes and its pleasing grey;  here, feel the smoothness of the worsted wool, and look how straight and tight the seams are sewed! Peek at the matching vest, beneath my coat so close to heart, and on a heartstring pulls: I offer now, if then our deal is done, my waistcoat’s sleeves, both left and right, and made from this fine fabric over their full length – however long such sleeves may be – plus one important supplement to seal the trade, I guarantee their fit and tensile strength.