Quotes About Passion

The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.

If I thought this would never happen again I would die. But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

I'm not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

Screw poetry, it's you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin.

You can't keep a cool head when you're drowning in love. You just thrash around a lot and scream, and wear yourself out.

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

I want, I don't want. How can one live with such a heart?

I hunger to commit the act of touch.

His mouth is on me, his hands, I can't wait and he's moving, already, love, it's been so long, I'm alive in my skin, again, arms around him, falling and water softly everywhere, never-ending.

Then she let him lick her fingers for her. He ran his tongue around the small ovals of her nails. This was the closest she could get to him without becoming food: she was in him, or part of her was in part of him. Sex was the other way around: While that was going on, he was in her. I'll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I'll make you me.

Perhaps they were looking for passion; perhaps they delved into this book as into a mysterious parcel - a gift box at the bottom of which, hidden in layers of rustling tissue paper, lay something they'd always longed for but couldn't ever grasp.

So that's what art is, for the artist," said Crake. "An empty drainpipe. An amplifier. A stab at getting laid.

Despite their cool poses they wear their cravings on the outside, like the suckers on a squid. They want it all.

you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth

oil paints...the look of licked lips.

On impulse he might die for her, but living for her would be quite different. He has no talent for monotony.

What else can I do? Once you've gone this far you aren't fit for anything else. Something happens to your mind. You're overqualified, overspecialized, and everybody knows it.

I had a boyfriend once who sent me--in a plastic bag, so it wouldn't drip--a real cow's heart with a real arrow stuck through it. As you may divine, he knew I was interested in poetry.

She's been a distraction for him, but not a necessity of life. More like a super-strong mint: intense while it lasted but quickly finished.

But it's love that does us in.

Whoever cares the most will lose.

So by the time the morning came, Odysseus and I were indeed friends, as Odysseus had promised we would be. Or let me put it another way: I myself had developed friendly feelings towards him - more than that, loving and passionate ones - and he behaved as if he reciprocated them. Which is not quite the same thing.

She's been a distraction for him, but not a necessity of life. More like a super-strong mint: intense while it lasted, but quickly finished.

Messy love is better than none, I guess. I'm no authority on sane living. Which is all true and no hep at all, because this form of love is like the pain of childbirth: so intense it's hard to remember afterwards, or what kind of screams and grimaces it pushed you into.