Quotes About Intensity

You shouldn't do this — you shouldn't! was all she found breath to say. He laughed softly, deeply. I'm doing it, though. Want me to stop? Yes Little liar! He took her lips then and Fay was lost. Like a small moth she fluttered in the dark flame of him and it mattered not that destruction might lie beyond the ecstasy he offered now.

His heart beat high for war and he blazed with an implacable fire which needed no kindling.

caput acris equi;

a heart that is maddened with love

Her eyes are pure stars, and her fingers, if they touch you, freeze you to the bone.

I am drowning, my dear, in seas of fire.

Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.

I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.

I burn, I shiver, out of this sun, into this shadow.

But I was thinking; feeling; living; those two lives that the two halves symbolized with the intensity, the muffled intensity, which a butterfly or moth feels when with its sticky tremulous legs and antennae it pushes out of the chrysalis and emerges and sits quivering beside the broken case for a moment; its wings still creased; its eyes dazzled, incapable of flight.

When I heard you cry I followed you, and saw you put down your handkerchief, screwed up, with its rage, with its hate, knotted in it.

Is it not possible — I often wonder — that things we have felt with great intensity have an experience independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence? And if so, will it not be possible,in time, that some device will be invented by which we can tap them? …Instead of remembering here a scene and there a sound, I shall fit a plug into the wall; and listen in to the past

I am not sinuous or suave; I sit among you abrading your softness with my hardness, quenching the silver-grey flickering moth-wing quiver of words with the green spurt of my clear eyes.

I am rocked from side to side by the violence of my emotion.

She felt more deeply, more passionately, every year. It increased, he said. Alas, perhaps, but one should be glad of it- it went on increasing in his experience.

The flowers have come, and are adorable, dusky, tortured, passionate like you.

Sometimes he woke with a brain like lead; at others it was as if a thousand wax tapers were alight and people were throwing fireworks inside him.

She blazed. She kindled. Out of the night she burnt like a white star.

I love and I hate. I desire one thing only.

Everything he saw was distasteful to him. He hated the blue and white, the intensity and definiteness, the hum and heat of the south; the landscape seemed to him as hard and as romantic as a cardboard background on the stage, and the mountain but a wooden screen against a sheet painted blue. He walked fast in spite of the heat of the sun.

To be loved by Susan would be to be impaled by a bird's sharp beak, to be nailed to a barnyard door. Yet there are moments when I could wish to be speared by a beak, to be nailed to a barnyard door, positively, once and for all.

She burnt like a dead white star.

extremes of feeling are allied to madness;