Quotes About Passion

I want to dip my finger in your pot of honey.

So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.

who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.

To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.

Her heart was made of liquid sunsets.

But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.

Oh, I am in love with life!

I know what loves are trembling into fire; how jealousy shoots its green flashes hither and thither; how intricately love crosses love; love makes knots; love brutally tears them apart. I have been knotted; I have been torn apart.

to teach without zest is a crime.

I burn, I shiver, out of this sun, into this shadow.

I need someone whose mind falls like a chopper on a block; to whom the pitch of absurdity is sublime, and a shoestring adorable. To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?

Life and a lover

To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?…There is nobody—here among these grey arches, and moaning pigeons, and cheerful games and tradition and emulation, all so skilfully organised to prevent feeling alone.

I condemn you. Yet my heart yearns towards you. I would go with you through the fires of death. Yet am happiest alone.

Freedom and fullness of expression are of the essence of the art.

Ah well, so be it. The compensation of growing old, Peter Walsh thought, coming out of Regent's Park, and holding his hat in hand, was simply this; that the passions remain as strong as ever, but one has gained — at last! — the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence — the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.

He felt the need for something which he could attach his floating heart to; the heart that tugged at his side; the heart that seemed filled with spiced amorous gales every evening about this time.

To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?

For such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime

Chi mai potrà misurare il fervore e la violenza del cuore di un poeta quando rimane preso e intrappolato in un corpo di donna?