Quotes About Intensity

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.

If I could bleed, or sleep! If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to burn away all the peripherals

I felt nothing. Then I felt a small, deep thrill, and a bright seam of red welled up at the lip of the slash. The blood gathered darkly, like fruit, and rolled down my ankle into the cup of my black patent leather shoe.

As I stared down at Constantin the way you stare down at a bright, unattainable pebble at the bottom of a deep well, his eyelids lifted and he looked through me, and his eyes were full of love. I watched dumbly as a shutter of recognition clicked across the blur of tenderness and the wide pupils went glossy and depthless as patent leather.

I could feel the tears start to spurt from the screwed-up nozzles of my eyes.

I lay back in the car and let the colored lights come at me, the music from the radio, the reflection of the guy driving. It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain... remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted. When you feel that this may be the good-bye, the last time, it hits you harder.

Then the worst happened, that big, dark, hunky boy, the only one there huge enough for me, who had been hunching around over women, and whose name I had asked the minute I had come into the room, but no one told me, came over and was looking hard in my eyes and it was Ted Hughes.

The one man since I've lived who could blast Richard.

Somehow these sluttish nights make me have a violent nunlike passion to write and sequester myself. I shall sequester. I don't want to see anybody because they are not Ted Hughes and I never have been made a fool of by a man.

They had an efficiency, a great beauty, And were extravagant, like torture.

Sim, fiquei e levada com você, ainda estou. Ninguém jamais despertou tamanha intensidade de sensação física em mim. Afastei-o, pois não suportaria ser um capricho passageiro. Antes de entregar meu corpo, preciso entregar meus pensamentos, minha mente, meus sonhos. E você não queria saber de nada disso.

Sun struck the water like a damnation. No pit of shadow to crawl into, And his blood beating the old tattoo I am, I am, I am.

O vase of acid, It is love you are full of.

We must be still and still moving / Into another intensity / For a further union / (...) / In my end is my beginning.

Old men ought to be explorers Here and there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise.

If you compare several representative passages of the greatest poetry you see how great is the variety of types of combination, and also how completely any semi-ethical criterion of "sublimity" misses the mark. For it is not the "greatness," the intensity, of the emotions, the components, but the intensity of the artistic process, the pressure, so to speak, under which the fusion takes place, that counts.

Love. Tired old jokes aside, a real, powerful love does have one thing in common with Hell itself: it burns everything else out of you.

I saw someone hurrying over, a man, who grasped Egyptia's raised arm excitedly. All right, he said. Tell me your number. Egyptia and I stared at him. His eyes were popping. Go away, Egyptia said. Her own eyes filled with tears. She couldn't bear the stupid things life did to her.

In the midst of passion, some previous passion still held some sway, it seemed.

Leadenly he sank down on her again, his face in Chenti's pillow, his body slack, weakened as never before, in a deathlike speechless aftermath where thought ran all too free.

Sick nearly to senselessness, yet he derived a peculiar and intense comfort from Estemba's supporting arm, the grey-gold hair against his face, the aura of tenderness and protection.

An admirer of female beauty, if not essentially snared by it, he feasted briefly on two smouldering blue coals of eyes, fringed by coal-black lashes. Romulan's eyes, for that matter, and also for that matter, fixed upon Romulan.

His voice quivered; it had the harp-string note to it that belongs to some intense emotion of which the victim is himself uncertain, or at which he is in disorder. But it was a voice that meant to demand blood.