Quotes About Passion

The truly great writer does not want to write. He wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination.

No quiero ser razonable ni lógico. ¡Los detesto! Quiero reventar de risa, quiero divertirme. Quiero hacer algo. Quiero sentarme en un café y pasarme el día hablando. Dios, nosotros tenemos nuestros defectos...pero tenemos entusiasmo. Es mejor cometer errores que no hacer nada.

The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can life the life of the imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain.

Wine isn't strong enough. It's blood I want.

I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania. I make your ovaries incandescent.

We have scholars galore, and kings and emperors, and statesmen and military leaders, and artists in profusion, and inventors, discoverers, explorers - but where are the great lovers? After a moment's reflection one is back to Abelard and Heloise, or Anthony and Cleopatra, or the story of the Taj Mahal. So much of it is fictive, expanded and glorified by the poverty-stricken lovers whose prayers are answered only by myth and legend.

El arte consiste en llegar hasta la últimas consecuencias. Si comienzas con tambores, tienes que acabar con dinamita o TNT.

Te quiero…te adoro –dice–. Iré adonde digas: Estambul, Singapur, Honolulú. Pero ahora tengo que irme…se está haciendo tarde.

Better a good venereal disease than a moribund peace and quiet.

slaying everything within reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their vitals.

And her delicacy offended. Who wants a delicate whore! Claude would even ask you to turn your face away when she squatted over the bidet. All wrong! A man, when he's burning up with passion, wants to see things; he wants to see everything, even how they make water.

This is all a figurative way of speaking about what is unmentionable. What is unmentionable is pure fuck and pure cunt; it must be mentioned only in de luxe editions, otherwise the world will fall apart. What holds the world together, as I have learned from bitter experience, is sexual intercourse. But fuck, the real thing, cunt, the real thing, seems to contain some unidentified element which is far more dangerous than nitroglycerine.

He falls on her lap and lies there quivering like a toothache

She wanted them to argue with her, to gush, to rhapsodize. She wanted them to sparkle, not to chew. Words...words...words... She gobbled them up, spewed them out again, added them up, juggled them, nursed them along, carried them to bed and put them under the pillow like soiled pajamas, slept on them, snored over them. Words... When every other memory of her had fled there would remain-HER WORDS.

Revolutions are nipped in the bud or else succeed too quickly. Passion is quickly exhausted. Men fall back on ideas, comme d'habitude. Nothing is proposed that can last more than twenty-four hours. We are living a million lives in the space of a generation. In the study of entomology, or of deep sea life, or cellular activity, we derive more...

A man, when he's burning up with passion, wants to see things; he wants to see everything, even how they make water. And while it's all very nice to know that a woman has a mind, literature coming from the cold corpse of a whore is the last thing to be served in bed.

Mientras falte esa chispa de pasión, la actuación carecerá de significado humano.

I thought I had found a living volcano, a female Vesuvius. I never thought of a human ship going down in an ocean of despair, in a Sargasso of impotence.

I know we were conjugating the verb love like two maniacs trying to fuck through an iron gate.

Ai iubit-o candva,dar erai atat de satisf?cut c? poÈ›i iubi È™i pe altcineva în afar? de tine,încat ai uitat aproape imediat de ea.Te-ai urm?rit pe tine iubind.Ai purtat-o prin toate astea numai ca tu s? poÈ›i simÈ›i iar??i.

When you get an erection you think you're passionate.

The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain.

you can go to the trenches and be blown to bits; nothing will create that spark of passion if there isn't the intervention of a human hand. Somebody has to put his hand into the machine and let it be wrenched off if the cogs are to mesh again.

Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums you have to end with dynamite, or TNT.