Quotes About Instinct

Great rationalizations. All of which her adrenal gland middle-fingered and then carried right on.

She slapped him so fast and so hard,his head actually kicked back on his spine.His first instinct was to bare his fangs and bite her,to punish her,to tantalize himself-because there was no better spice to pleasure than a little pain.Or a lot of it.He righted his head and lowered his lids.That felt good.Do you want to do it again?

An overwhelming, possessive instinct flashed through him. With dread, he realized he wanted to mark her. Mark her as his. He wanted that special scent all over her so no other male would come near her. So that they would know whom she belonged to. So that they would fear the repercussions of wanting to possess her for themselves. Except

Fuck me!" he belted out. Yes, please, his cock replied with a kick.

He smelled her instantly, and wouldn't you know it, he got a hard-on.

Her first cogent thought was that he was a predator. Her second…was that she wanted to be caught.

Edgar Allan Poe called it "the imp of the perverse," that willful, self-destructive voice within that impels us to do things or say things that cause our undoing.

Charting is a little like surfing. You don't have to know a lot about the physics of tides, resonance, and fluid dynamics in order to catch a good wave. You just have to be able to sense when it's happening and then have the drive to act at the right time.

and—we're all actors by instinct, hams from birth—she

The only time they appear human is when you have a knife at their throats. The instant you remove it, they fall back into animality. Obscenity.

This is the way I like it, when you get going there's just no need to talk, as if we were animals and just communicated by silent telepathy

This is the way I like it, when you get going there's just no need to talk, as if we were animals and just communicated by silent telepathy

Only sign we have now to know which way we're going, is ducks.

He had no conscious knowledge of death, but like every animal of the Wild, he possessed the instinct of death. To him it stood as the greatest of hurts. It was the very essence of the unknown; it was the sum of the terrors of the unknown, the one culminating and unthinkable catastrophe that could happen to him, about which he knew nothing and about which he feared everything.

The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten. The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN. He did not formulate the law in clear, set terms and moralize about it. He did not even think the law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all.

But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild heritage and his memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and away.

But, – and there it is, – we want to live and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens that it is the nature of life to live and move, to want to live and move. If it were not for this, life would be dead. It is because of this life that is in you that you dream of your immortality.

The hand descended. Nearer and nearer it came. It touched the ends of his upstanding hair. He shrank down under it. It followed down after him, pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering. He still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at the hands of men.

He must master or be mastered; while to show mecy was a weakness. Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed.

But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.

He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial.

Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening; but in her instinct, which was the experience of all mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny.

But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it.

He had killed man, the noblest game of all, and he had killed in the face of the law of club and fang.