Quotes About Hunger

How can we help Mikhail Alexandrovich? By staying hungry? But us, you know, we're alive!

Desire is hunger is the fire I breathe, love is a banquet on which we feed.

She worked in order to live, and presently fell in love, also in order to live, for the heart, too, has its hunger.

There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.

Hunger of the body is altogether different from the shallow, daily hunger of the belly. Those who have known this kind of hunger cannot entirely love, ever again, those who have not.

Aren't we most aware of our animal natures when love or hunger or hatred burns through reason and encourages us to do exactly what we desire to do, with frequently tragic results?

Fear, love, and hunger were the agents that developed the wits of the lower animals, as they were, of course, the prime factors in developing the intelligence of man.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

Desire is the kind of thing thateats youandleaves you starving.

"Well, It's just painful to see them without nothing to eat and at the same time no God. So let's share our food and our God.

We are all materialistic. There are different levels of materialism! Some aspire to a fancy car, others only wish to go to bed at night with a full stomach.

Miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock.

The images I had were of people being driven mad by living in the city. Images of parents who were so hungry and unfulfilled that they ate their own children.

Tengo hambre –repite. –Oiga. ¿Cree usted que está bien pedirle dinero a la gente que trabaja? ¿A quien tiene trabajo? Se le contrae la cara y dice entrecortadamente, con una voz ronca: –¿Qué puedo hacer?

The old man wasn't quite gone yet. His lungs gurgled. Rudy was hungry. He checked the refrigerator and found a recent deli bag of sliced turkey. He sat on the bed, finished the turkey, and watched the traffic crawling on the street outside as he waited for Keyes to die.

Scoffin' a load of our grub an' not tellin' a story? I say, what a bally swizz!

Capital, cried Basil. I could eat a stag, antlers and all. I say they they do make a wonderful nosebag for us wounded heroes, y'know.

Burr, oi'm pow'ful 'ungry, give oi a scone, missus!" "No no, you nasty rough mole, one is quite sufficient!" "Hurr, then give oi summ zoop, marm." "Soup? Lack a season, the ruffian will eat us out of house and burrow. Go away and be off with you, you gluttonous beast!

I don't know yet whether you agree with the Provisional Government. But I know very well that when they give you sweet speeches and make many promises they are deceiving you and the whole Russian people. The people need peace. The people need bread and land. And they give you war, hunger, no food, and the land remains with the landowners. Sailors, comrades, you must fight for the revolution, fight to the end.

You know I could go for a sandwich, but uh, I'm not gonna open two jars. I can't be opening and closing all kinds of jars. And who knows how many knives!

In one study, people who listened to a lunchtime radio mystery show ate 15 percent more than those who didn't. The basic rule: distractions of all kinds make us eat, forget how much we eat, and extend how long we eat—even when we're not hungry.

You Can't Get Enough… of Something You Don't Really Want I first heard this from one of my favorite authors, Geneen Roth. She was talking about binge eating and describing why we keep eating huge amounts of food beyond fullness and sometimes even beyond feeling sick. She explained: We are trying to get something we desperately want, from something that can't give it to us. In

Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death.

Her scent filled his nostrils. He was shocked to feel his throat tighten with a primal hunger. She smelled like her mother, but fresher, sweeter somehow. Some primitive male instinct warned him this was a bloom still on the vine, fragrant and tender and ripe. He scowled. She might be nectar to a another man, but to a MacDonnell, Dougal Cameron's daughter would be more deadly than nightshade.