Quotes About Intensity

Blaze with the fire that is never extinguished.

What are you doing?' 'What the fuck does it look like I'm doing? Hammering a pencil into Anton's brain with a copy of Birds of the North Sea.' 'Is that good?' 'Definitive, according to the Observer.

I've never wanted a quiet life.

My blood burned withing me.

Aí parei de chorar, chorava de ódio e o choro de ódio é estimulante, as minhas melhores ideias nasceram do ódio.

Dedilhou o pulso estático numa busca tão intensa que acabou por transferir para o pulso da morta o latejar do próprio dedo inflamado.

True love survives all shocks: an affection originally produced by admiration for unusual beauty may not only survive the loss of that beauty, but may become more intense if the beauty has changed into ugliness through causes that bind the lovers together in tender associations.

I seldom think of politics more than eighteen hours a day.

Whatever role you play, play it to the hilt.

In daylight, silence is louder and angrier than at any other time. There are no sweet measures of silence such as night's stars, or evening's sunset, or morning's growing light. There is only bright, hard silence and it sounds louder than drums.

He released something elemental in her, some primitive force she hadn't even been aware of until he came along. It was frightening, in a way, but it was also exhilarating and incredibly exciting. And the jungle, steamy and frought with hidden dangers, seemed the perfect setting for their coming together.

Connie threw back her head, opened her mouth and cried to the heavens, as every sensation built and exploded inside her, fireworks and waterfalls, starburst and throbbing heat.

Stanton stood behind her, dressed in black, his shaggy blond hair hanging in his eyes. He was handsome in a dangerous way that made her want to stare forever in his intense blue eyes.

The emotions that feel so intense today will ease up over time as long as we let them. We just have to watch how we think and talk about this rejection. If we give it the power to define us, it will haunt us long-term. But if we only allow it enough power to refine us, the hurt will give way to healing.

I like my coffee strong, not lethal!

Always love to the point of madness," he said, "or else what is the point of love?

Did you have a love that grand?" I asked him. No. I never did. Did you? "No, and I wouldn't want to. It would be too painful if it failed." But to experience it once—even if it is painful—don't you think it would be worth it? Wouldn't you want to know what that kind of intensity is like? Wouldn't you want to feel that deeply? "I don't think most people can. Not the way I imagine it.

It meant different things to different people, but somehow it meant them all intensely. Shostakovich's words just confuse the issue. His symphony itself is what remains. Listen to it. It is your symphony to write with him.

Then his face changed to a mask of hate.

I feel like I could eat the world raw.

It was almost like fear, in the way it filled me, rising in my chest. It was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came. But it was neither of those, buoyant where they were heavy, bright were they dull.

He liked such sharpness, for there was nothing in him that had any blood you might spill.

I would look at him and feel a love so sharp it seemed my flesh lay open. I made a list of all the things I would do for him. Scald off my skin. Tear out my eyes. Walk my feet to bones, if only he would be happy and well.

He was not so easy and even as he pretended. Living with him was like standing beside the sea. Each day a different color, a different foam-capped height, but always the same restless intensity pulling towards the horizon.