Quotes About Intensity

The blazing fire makes flames and brightness out of everything thrown into it.

What one has, one ought to use; and whatever he does, he should do with all his might.

I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.

I'm not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

You can't keep a cool head when you're drowning in love. You just thrash around a lot and scream, and wear yourself out.

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

and nostalgia swept through Jimmy like a sudden hunger.

I had a boyfriend once who sent me--in a plastic bag, so it wouldn't drip--a real cow's heart with a real arrow stuck through it. As you may divine, he knew I was interested in poetry.

When you focus on details like this - close up, really clear, totally useless - you know you're in shock

She's been a distraction for him, but not a necessity of life. More like a super-strong mint: intense while it lasted but quickly finished.

Real painters grunt like Marlon Brando

Suddenly revenge is so close he can actually taste it. It tastes like steak, rare.

Messy love is better than none, I guess. I'm no authority on sane living. Which is all true and no hep at all, because this form of love is like the pain of childbirth: so intense it's hard to remember afterwards, or what kind of screams and grimaces it pushed you into.

Extreme emotions could be lethal. If I can't have you nobody will , and so forth. Death could set in.

Having experienced both, I am not sure which is worse: intense feeling or the absence of it.

I'M STARVED FOR YOU

Do you hunger for me, do you burn for me

In queste occasioni leggo velocemente, con voracità, saltando qualche parola e cercando di riempirmi la testa il più possibile prima di un nuovo, lungo periodo di astinenza. Se fossero un genere commestibile queste letture smorzerebbero l'ingordigia dell'affamato, se fossero sesso equivarrebbero a un veloce amplesso furtivo, in qualche vicolo.

she'd have been gnawing her way through his bedroom walls to sink her avid fingers into his youthful flesh.

Is that all there is? they must be thinking. Shouldn't it be less ordinary, more sordid, more epic, more truly harrowing, this flesh wound of your? Tell us more! Couldn't we please crank up the pain?

hatred and viciousness are addictive. You can get high on them.

She prefers the more dramatic shows where everyone's getting kidnapped or raped or shut up in a dark hole, and you aren't supposed to laugh at it. You're supposed to be upset, the way you'd be if it was happening to you. Being upset is a warmer, close-up feeling, not a chilly distant feeling like laughing at people.

Art was a kind of demonic possession. Art would dance you to death. It would move in and take you over, and then destroy you.

There was a pot of boiling rage on a private stove behind their closed curtains: