Quotes About Lust

Of all the worldly passions, lust is the most intense. All other worldly passions seem to follow in its train.

Then there was organ music, a sort of feverish dirge, and then I was stepping out of my shorts and into the shower with Chenault. I remember the feel of those soapy little hands washing my back, keeping my eyes tightly shut while my soul fought a hopeless battle with my groin, then giving up like a drowning man and soaking the bed with our bodies.

Nixon stabbed his Enemies in the back, but Clinton did it to his Friends. His lust to inflict Punishment surpassed even Nixon's, and he put more people in prison than Caligula. He had his own brother locked up & he refused to pardon his old friend Webb Hubbell.… Richard Nixon was a criminally insane Monster; Bill Clinton is a black-hearted Swine of a friend.

I feel a powerful lust for red salmon. I agreed.

Bond had taken her to the station and had kissed her once hard on the lips and had gone away. It hadn't been love, but a quotation had come into Bond's mind as his cab moved out of Pennsylvania station: 'Some love is fire, some love is rust. But the finest, cleanest love is lust.

Some love is fire, some love is rust. But the finest, cleanest love is lust.

He would have sex the way other men made war.

All the seven deadly sins are man's true nature. To be greedy. To be hateful. To have lust. Of course, you have to control them, but if you're made to feel guilty for being human, then you're going to be trapped in a never-ending sin-and-repent cycle that you can't escape from.

Lust and self-mutilation are closely related impulses. There are also self-mutilators among knowers: they do not want to be creators under any circumstances.

Sin is ground in the notion of what is there that I want.

Key to all fiction, long or short, is to remember that the wolfman did not want the moon.

Like everyone else, I want to sleep with Leonardo DiCaprio.

What does it say?" I said, when I had. She said, "It is filled with all the words for how I want you...Look.

When we war against nature, we war against ourselves. There is no distinction, no dividing line, no enemy. We devour everything in a lust for self-destruction. As if that is intelligence's only gift.

The poet who glories in war is a spinner of lies. The poet who delights in visceral detail, for the ... purpose of feeding that lust for blood, has all the depth of a puddle of piss....

Of course, he was too busy spilling an endless flood of seed into a barely sensate and in no way resisting Captain Sater down in his cabin, and this, as all well know, is the pinnacle of all human virtue, glory and exaltation.

Oh, we take you into slaughter without a moment's thought. And yes, some of you come to enjoy it, to lust for that cacophony, that violence, the reek of blood. And so we share with you, dear horse, our peculiar madness. But who judges us for this crime against you and your kind? No one. Unless you horses have a god.

Oh, we take you into slaughter without a moment's thought. And yes, some of you come to enjoy it, to lust for that cacophony, that violence, the reek of blood. And so we share with you, dear horse, our peculiar madness. But who judges us for this crime against you and your kind? No one. Unless your horses have a god.

We are all members of the same flawed species. Putting our moral vision into practice means imposing our will on others. The human lust for power and esteem, coupled with its vulnerability to self-deception and self-righteousness, makes that an invitation to a calamity, all the worse when the power is directed at a goal as quixotic as eradicating human self-interest.

He looked sleepy, sensual, dragged from a bed of lust, no doubt.

The man was running his eyes over Finnigin's body in a decidedly greedy manner.

The flesh tingled only slightly. Louis was no voracious monster like Emilia Manden. A slight glow still played around Louis's lips, which were shuddering. Othman knew the ichor would have tasted wonderful, literally divine

For hundreds of years, Casmeer's libido had lain dormant, but now, as if the act of writing had rekindled a forgotten lust, he was moved to inflict his feelings upon his stories. He'd no intention of doing that. Also he felt as if the tales themselves were running away from him. He found it hard to keep them in line.

Shem's body looked so perfect, it could have been an idealised statue of male beauty. Daniel heard Sofia utter a lascivious, appreciative murmur, and a blade of pure jealousy sliced through his belly. She would want a piece of Shem. Everyone did.