Quotes About Passion

Before Annie could answer, he was there, hugging her until her ribs ached and kissing her so hard that her lips felt bruised.

Unless you love someone, nothing else makes sense.

I think you can only be truly mad at someone you really love.— Grace Trevelyan

Laters, baby.

I'd like to bite that lip.

Every now and then, a person must do something simply because he wants to, because it seems to him worth doing. And that does not make it worthless or a waste of time.

The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperment of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.

Refinement is the sign of deficient vitality, in art, in love, and in everything.

Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.

Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way.

One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!

She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.

There was something better in life than this rub­bish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend. . .

One doesn't come to Italy for niceness, one comes for life!

One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.

Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle.

They had never struggled, and only a struggle twists sentimentality and lust together into love.

If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting--both for us and for her.

But it was the stupidity of passion, which would rather have nothing than a little.

You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you.

The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle.

Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man.

To them Howards End was a house; they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And—pushing one step farther in these mists—may they not have decided even better than they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it—can passion for such things be transmitted where there is no bond of blood?

I had no right to move out of my books and music, which was what I did when I met you