Quotes About Passion

Writing the musical City of Angels was a wonderful job I gave myself. I returned to my loves of swing music and black-and-white movies and to the Los Angeles of my boyhood--playwright and tv writer Larry Gelbart

April is the cruelest month, T.S. Eliot wrote, by which I think he meant (among other things) that springtime makes people crazy. We expect too much, the world burgeons with promises it can't keep, all passion is really a setup, and we're doomed to get our hearts broken yet again. I agree, and would further add: Who cares? Every spring I go out there anyway, around the bend, unconditionally. ... Come the end of the dark days, I am more than joyful. I'm nuts.

It's what you do that makes your soul.

Wrong place. Wrong man. Wrong time. What a shame his kisses felt so right.

If you want to sing, sing. If you want to ride, ride. If you want to cook, cook. That's your path. Where it leads you is a mystery, but you follow that path. You can't force it. Life doesn't like being coerced.

Is it enough for people to simply enjoy their work without finding it meaningful or being passionate about it? I think it is. In fact, I would prefer to completely rid the concept of meaningful work as the gold standard, and replace it with a new one: doing satisfying work that meet one's needs.

Do you feel you are doing something important or that you care about deeply? Do the content and challenges associated with your work enthrall you? Do you often find yourself surprised by how much time has flown by when you are working? Do you feel passionate about your work? If you have answered yes to one or more of these questions, you are in the fortunate position of being fully engaged by your work.

The fact is, passion is not a commodity, it is the by-product of doing something that really engages you. Look for what will truly hold your attention-psychologically and technically-and the passion should take of itself.

She had always been an unashamed reader of novels.

Perhaps all love had something of the ridiculous in it.

For I had observed that men did not usually do things unless they liked doing them.

Leonora liked to think of her life as calm of mind, all passion spent, or, more rarely, as emotion recollected in tranquillity.

I never thought that history would become one of my life's passions. I never even liked history when I was at school, apart from the context of literature, music, and art. But history has lately been revealed to me as the place where I live, where we all live, side by invisible side with others who - if we get quiet enough and listen carefully enough - will touch us and tell us their stories.

It's not publishing that matters; it's not writing that matters. What matters is feeling alive while writing, washing dishes, driving, etc. Writing just gives you a solid place to land some of that God energy that is already within you.

His mouth. It touched hers lightly, just touched at first. And it seemed every nerve in her body suddenly rushed toward her mouth to join the explosion of sensation his lips brought. He moved his head and his mouth slid one way, then the other, and his fingers tightened around her neck, pulling her closer.

She wanted him. Not in the sweet way of poetry, though there was that music in the symmetry of his body, in the careful meshing of bone and sinew and flesh that made him. Her want was raw. Physical. She felt it in the palms of her hands and the flesh of her lips and the heaviness of her breasts. In her life, she'd been hungry, and thirsty. She'd needed sleep. She had never, in her life, needed to touch a man.

He kissed her violently, wanting to somehow inhale her into himself, unable to stop the fury of his reaction, the trembling rocking hunger for her—so vast and all-encompassing, he couldn't stand it. Mattie, flowing all around him, met his savagery. He clasped her hips hard against him, found himself biting her neck, laving her breasts with his tongue. He felt such unblunted, furious desire he thought he might die of it.

He looked up at the rain and closed his eyes, his hands still wrapped around her back. Mattie knew with an acute awareness that she would always remember this moment: both of them nude in the falling twilight of a mountain summer, sated and yet still hungry, Zeke's strong face tipped to received the gift of rain, his broad hands warm on her.

His mouth was wet and hot and intensely demanding, so sharp and piercing with need that it broke through Mattie's defenses the way nothing else could have. A burst of excruciating hunger made her almost frantic with wanting him. She shifted in his arms and met his kiss wide open, giving as furiously as she took. "Oh, Mattie," he said against her mouth. "I've never wanted a woman in my life like I want you. You're driving me crazy.

She came apart, and Zeke let go, driving into her without restraint, thrilling to the cry that escaped her throat. Her body convulsed around him, a roaring filled his ears. He splintered into a billion pieces. His heart, made of thinnest glass, shattered.

In all those women there is not one to match you. They have known my flesh. You have known my heart, and stolen my soul.

I would rather love with all my heart and soul and mind for one hour than to suffer all my life with the lack.

Every single one of us can do things that no one else can do -- can love things that no one else can love. We are like violins. We can be used for doorstops, or we can make music. You know what to do.

about things you merely like? Would you rather learn how to plant a garden, work with friends to paint a house, or just have a great day with