Quotes About Passion

Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it—to make any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that it ceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality!

We work in the dark. We do what we can. We give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion our task. The rest is the madness of art.

Well, intensity with ignorance—what do you want worse?

Every great wave of popular passion that rolls up on the prairies is dashed to spray when it strikes the hard rocks of Manhattan.

She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately--- a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, windows, purses, saucers all glaring at us an we in each other's arm oblivious. I sit down beside her and she talks--- a flood of talk. Wild consumptive notes of hysteria, perversion, leprosy. I hear not a word because she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die.

I found that what I had desired all my life was not to live - if what others are doing is called living - but to express myself.

To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.

Paint what you like and die happy

She may be lying in bed reading a book, she may be making love with a prize fighter, or she may be running like mad through a field of stubble, one shoe one, one shoe off, a man named Corn Cob pursuing her hotly. Wherever she is I am standing in complete darkness; her absence blots me out.

As long as that spark of passion is missing there is no human significance in the performance.

All I ask of life, he says, is a bunch of books, a bunch of dreams, and a bunch of cunt.

Writing is its own reward.

Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song.

I shoot hot bolts into you, I make your ovaries incandescent […] I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked.

Honest criticism means nothing: what one wants is unrestrained passion, fire for fire.

My hunger and curiosity drive me forward in all directions at once.

The essential thing is to WANT to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.

Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy; I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of them is not my concern.

Until it is kindled by a spirit as flamingly alive as the one which gave it birth a book is dead to us. Words divested of their magic are but dead hieroglyphs.

For seven years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my mind – her. Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to her we would all be Jesus Christs today.

Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt.

There's something depraved about screwing a woman who doesn't give a fuck about it. It heats your blood…" And then, after a moment's meditation— "Can you imagine what she'd be like if she had any feelings?

To paint is to love again, live again, see again. To get up at the crack of dawn in order to take a peek at the water colors one did the day before, or even a few hours before, is like stealing a look at the beloved while she sleeps. The thrill is even greater if one has first to draw back the curtains. How they glow in the cold light of early dawn! … Is there any writer who rouses himself at daybreak in order to read the pages of his manuscript? Perish the thought!

I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked.