Quotes About Passion

Does [your music] have to be a job? And as for your actual job...do you have to think of [it] as a consolation prize? ...What if you just *played*? Isn't it possible you'd also like your job more, because you wouldn't think of it as something that's secretly had to replace this other thing?

Even not knowing that yet, she felt an intuitive urgency. What she wanted-- and wanted now-- was to be loved by someone who excited her.

She looks down at me, her eyes depthful and ruinous. "Love is a kind of killing, Addy,' she says. 'Don't you know that?

We never know, none of us, what love'll do to us.

Like all that you are is the wanting, and the rest of you just burns away?

My head is so full of plans that it seems aflame.

If you didn't feel it on your body long after he'd left, was it really worth laying for him? I wanted to feel that.

Beautiful, he says, and she could titrate like a motherfucker.

The world is blood-hot and personal. —Sylvia Plath

Because there's a hundred ways sex can ruin you but there's no end to the ways love can.    Walking

There's a hundred ways sex can ruin you, but there's no end to the ways love can.

My head is so full of plans that it seems aflame. Marie Curie

Love is a kind of killing, Addy," she says. "Don't you know that?

The more I did it?the more it owned me. It made things matter. It put a spine into my spineless life and that spine spread, into backbone, ribs, collarbone, neck held high. It was something. Don't say it wasn't.

we're all wanting things we don't understand. things we can't even name. The yearning so deep, like pinions over our hearts.

Because there's a hundred ways sex can ruin you but there's no end to the ways love can.

She was the one who showed me all the dark wonders of life, the real life, the life I'd only seen flickering from the corner of my eye. Did I ever feel anything at all until she showed me what feeling meant? Pushing at the corners of her cramped world with curled fists, she showed me what it meant to live.

Life is short. No need for it to be boring too.

In the end, for me, there was only this: desire and addiction and hunger, a craving that made the world look hard-edged and brutally lovely.

Any man can be led by desire, Soph. But desire isn't love. Don't make the mistake of thinking it is.

For so delicious were the words she'd sung, it seem'd he had lov'd them a whole summer long.

Aside from the posters, wherever there was room, there were books. Stacks and stacks of books. Books crammed into mismatched shelves and towers of books up to the ceiling. I liked my books.

Some people lusted after cars, which had never made sense to me. For me, bookshelves could inspire whole spontaneous sonnets, so maybe it was an each to her own scenario.

His eyes were that curious shade of hazel that made her think of sunshine and toffee, caramel and whiskey, sweetness and sin all at once, and they were fixed on her with so much heat. So much intent. And she knew he was right. This was her moment, here and now....