Quotes About Desire

I used to want to be a writer or a painter, although I couldn't paint very well.

Sex is. There is nothing more to be done about it. Sex builds no roads, writes no novels and sex certainly gives no meaning to anything in life but itself.

No, I think that a person writes a poem because they have an inner urge of something that they want to express, and I think it's that inner urge that you want to express when you write a piece of music.

The ambition of 'Ten Thousand Saints,' Eleanor Henderson's debut novel about a group of unambitious lost souls, is beautiful. In nearly 400 pages, Henderson does not hold back once: she writes the hell out of every moment, every scene, every perspective, every fleeting impression, every impulse and desire and bit of emotional detritus.

Writing is like a 'lust,' or like 'scratching when you itch.' Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I, for one, must get it out.

It is not Kafka's fault that his wonderful writings have lately turned into a fad, and are read by people who have neither the ability nor the desire to absorb literature.

I gave up writing children's books. I wanted to escape from them as I had once wanted to escape from 'Punch': as I have always wanted to escape. In vain.

Imagine writing a poem with a sweating, worried-looking boy handing you a different pencil at the end of every word. My golf, you may say, is no poem; nevertheless, I keep wanting it to be one.

Writing is a passion I have never understood, yet a storyteller is all I have ever wanted to be.

What's big, thick, makes the earth move, and wants to have its way with you? I don't know, but can you introduce me?

He kissed her, he kissed her, he kissed her, little by little by little.

You mean you indulged in adultery and you dont' even have the benefit of a good saucy memory about it.

Damn the human stomach, this fat betrayor of ideals

The boy does well enough, said Vicente. A goose does not ask much of life, after all. No, she admitted. Those who ask much are more likely disappointed. We should all be as simple as the goose.

How she wanted to put away adult things and go back to seeing through a looking-glass, darkly.

You always had an eye for the fellow with a decent helping of sausage and hard-boiled eggs.

I would leave me were I him. I would leave myself if I could.

who knows what we want? We're all mysteries, even to ourselves.

O beautiful, to make escape And leave this world behind. Had I to stay another day I'd lose my fucking mind!

El amor nos convierte a todos en cazadores

How like a spoon with a razor edge is human need.

And a recipe on this page. It says 'Of apples with black skin and white flesh: to fill the stomach with greed unto Death.

He was hungry without yet knowing that hunger could be slaked by food; he was lonely without yet knowing that loneliness could be slaked, too.

She didn't want to say goodbye to Helia but her appetite for a dramatic occasion was immense.