Quotes About Desire

Daphne, who, of course, is full of the milk of human kindness and drips it about rather after the manner of a punctured cocoanut — that is to say, where it is neither expected nor desired.

Rich men have dreams. Poor men die to make them come true.

Everyone wants a long journey, kid. That's all. Next!

Parts of him were built to be awake before dawn and yearning to be both absolutely still and moving everywhere at once.

It was a motorcycle. Black, angular, and sleek, unmistakably European, it was the most beautiful object Carter had ever seen. He wanted it. He would fight anyone who tried to take it away from him. How soon could he ride it?

We're the worst thing because for us the worst thing is the best thing. And it's only the best thing for us if it's the worst thing for someone else.

You can't live in dread of something for long without beginning to crave it.

The key to evil? Freedom. The key to freedom? Money. For you, my darlings, freedom to do what you like to do makes you. Not that that stops you doing what you like, since you like doing what you like more than you like liking what you do . . .

Only meaning can make a difference and we all know there's no meaning. All stories express a desire for meaning, not meaning itself. Therefore any difference knowing the story makes is a delusion.

He loved the feel and smell of her palm and because he was one of those men who was always ultimately looking to dissolve himself into a woman.

All motivation derives from the primary fact of mortality. Take mortality away and motivation loses its...motivation. Thus vampires spend a lot of time lounging around and staring out of the window and finding they can't be arsed.

Nothing holds love together like shared vice or collusive perversion.

Full moon rises. You change. You need what you need, so you do what you do. The kill – like the show – must go on.

The pornologue's mantric (as is the Athanasian Creed, for that matter) sucking her down to a level of herself where no questions are asked, where her history evaporates, where her self bleeds painlessly into the void.

Simultaneously (in the inner voice of a female American cultural studies professor): Only meaning can make a difference and we all know there's no meaning. All stories express a desire for meaning, not meaning itself. Therefore any difference knowing the story makes is a delusion.

For the love of Mary, I get it, she's got a nifty twat. Tell me what I need to know and you can go up there and try'n get back into it.

She revisited sex now as a ruined project she couldn't entirely give up on.

He was a blessing in my life. My life was full of blessings. And one curse: That no amount of blessings was ever enough.

The yeehaw explanation is we're too busy chasing meat'n'pussy.

Creation sprawls like a dewed and willing maiden outside your window awaiting only the lechery of your senses...

That was the treachery of suffering. It took you to the point from which you thought death must follow, then let you know it could hold you there indefinitely. That was when you stopped fearing death and started wanting it, praying for it, begging for it.

I wish you had fucked her. Then you'd know. Then you'd know the sublime … Her asshole, for example. It's like a stern coquettish spoiled secretary working for Himmler—

Fuck the miracle of life, where do I sign up for a hysterectomy?

There were so many things I liked. That was the awful thing about being alive: there were so many things one liked. The awful thing about life was that there were so many things m full stop.