Quotes About Intensity

You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop being you, there is only the fight, the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next, and you know they are afraid and tired but you're not, you're alive, and death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing." Battle fever.

Clegane would grunt from time to time, and once Tyrion heard him mutter a curse, but otherwise he fought in a sullen silence. Not Oberyn Martell. "You raped her," he called, feinting. "You murdered her," he said, dodging a looping cut from Gregor's greatsword. "You killed her children," he shouted, slamming the spearpoint into the giant's throat, only to have it glance off the thick steel gorget with a screech.

Half as big but twice as mad.

I know I want you," he heard himself say, all his vows and his honor all forgotten.

High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster . . .until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite. "Not half bad," he acknowledged. "For a wench.

She's warm and smart and funny and she can kiss a man or slit his throat.

Despite the sound-deadened walls he could hear the thunder and feel the building shake as four thousand impassioned souls in the sanctuary next door stomped and clapped and laughed and cried and sang, as the service rose to a crescendo.

Many called her beautiful. She was not beautiful. She was red, and terrible and red.

Death can be more exciting than life.

We're not just going to shoot the bastards, we're going to rip out their living goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks.

The prayers of a lover are more imperious than the menaces of the whole world

The capacity for passion is both cruel and divine.

The capacity of passion is both cruel and divine

Fanaticism consists of redoubling your effort when you have forgotten your aim.

Fanaticism consists in redoubling your efforts when you have forgotten your aim.

Fanaticism consists in redoubling your effort when you have forgotten your aim.

But I don't like working. I do the absolute minimum that is necessary to reach a decision. There are many people who love working. They amass an inordinate amount of information, much more than is necessary to reach a conclusion. And they become attached to certain investments because they know them intimately. I am different. I concentrate on the essentials. When I have to, I work furiously because I am furious that I have to work. When I don't have to, I don't work.

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.

The sexual act is in time what the tiger is in space.

You perhaps now know that desire reduces us to pulp.

Take flight each day! At least for a moment, however brief, as long as it is intense. Every day a "spiritual exercise,"…Leave ordinary time behind. Make an effort to rid yourself of your own passions… Become eternal by surpassing yourself. This inner effort is necessary, this ambition, just.

You are an atrocious person! Since the day I met you I have become steadily more depraved.

The snow light flared on brightness. Blue: intense as a midsummer sky, obtained from grinding precious lapis lazuli carried by camel caravan all the way from the mountains of Afghanistan.

Without fanaticism we cannot accomplish anything.