Quotes About Desire

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She

Otar, her lover, said that when you walked behind her, and she knew you were walking behind her, the swing and play of those slim haunches was something intensely artistic, something Arab girls were taught in special schools by special Parisian panders who were afterwards strangled. Her

I want you to know that no matter how much you hurt me, you cannot hurt my love, and this sentence (if we re-English it from the Zemblan) came out as: I desire you and love when you flog me.

The two lads were told to wash their hands. The recent thrill of adventure had been superseded by another sort of excitement. They locked themselves up. The tap ran unheeded. Both were in a manly state and moaning like doves.

I felt that way not because I never once discovered any palpable hard young throat to crush among the masculine mutes that flickered somewhere in the background; but because it was to me overwhelmingly obvious (a favorite expression with my aunt Sybil) that all varieties of high school boys - from the perspiring nincompoop whom holding hands thrills, to the self-sufficient rapist with pustules and a souped-up car - equally bored my sophisticated young mistress.

she had painted her lips and was holding in her hollowed hands a beautiful, banal, Eden-red apple.

at the peak of this human agonised, selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again - and "oh no," Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure - all would be shattered

Oh Lolita, you are my girl, as Vee was Poe's and Bea Dante's, and

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta

Lolita, hayat?m?n ?????, kas?klar?m?n ateÅŸi. Günah?m, ruhum, Lolita; dilin ucu damaktan diÅŸlere doÄŸru üç basamakl?k bir yol al?r, üçüncÄŸsÄŸnde gelir diÅŸlere dayan?r. Lo-Li-Ta.

Lolita, luz de mi vida, fuego de mis entrañas. Pecado mío, alma mía. Lo-lita: la punta de la lengua emprende un viaje de tres pasos desde el borde del paladar para apoyarse, en el tercero, en el borde de los dientes. Lo.Li.Ta.

Lolita, hayat?m?n ?????, kas?klar?m?n ateÅŸi. Günah?m, ruhum, Lolita; dilin ucu damaktan diÅŸlere doÄŸru üç basamakl?k bir yol al?r, üçüncüsünde gelir diÅŸlere dayan?r. Lo-Li-Ta

are you quite, quite sure that—well, not tomorrow, of course, and not after tomorrow, but—well—some day, any day, you will not come to live with me? I will create a brand new God and thank him with piercing cries, if you give me that microscopic hope

Oh, Lolita, had you loved me thus!

while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I gave her to hold in her awkward fist the scepter of my passion.

Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again.

Wildly, I pursued the shadow of her infidelity; but the scent I travelled upon was so slight as to be practically undistinguishable from a madman's fancy.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta:

mirage and reality merge in love

throb-and-sob idol

Te quería, era un monstruo pentápodo, pero te queria. Era despreciable y brutal, y lascivo, y cuanto pueda imaginarse, mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais! Y habia momentos en que sabia todo cuanto sentias y saberlo era un infierno, pequeña mia

Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth.

I remember once handling an automatic belonging to a fellow student, in the days (I have not spoken of them, I think, but never mind) when I toyed with the idea of enjoying his little sister, a most diaphanous nymphet with a black hair bow, and then shooting myself.

I leaf again and again through these miserable memories, and keep asking myself, was it then, in the glitter of that remote summer, that the rift in my life began; or was my excessive desire for that child only the first evidence of an inherent singularity?