Quotes About Desire

Is language all about desire? Is desire all about loss? Would we ever need to say anything if we never lost anything? Is everything we ever say just another way to express: I will lose this, I will lose all of this. I will lose you?

People are dying and my generation just does not care. Including me. But I want to care. I really want to. I want to care so bad.

Probably it goes without saying, but time machine guys don't get a lot of action. Had a one night stand with something cute a couple of years ago. Not human exactly. Human-ish. Close enough that she looked awesome without her shirt on.

This is what he has always wanted, or so he had thought, but now here he is, in the middle of a story of his own and looking for the exit, and realizing all the exits are blocked and then realizing that an exit is not what he needs.

And I'll be?" "Whatever you want, man," she says. "A guy can dream," you say. "Cheers to that." You touch your small coffee cups to each other's, a toast to something you both know will never happen.

Desire is suffering. A simple equation, and a nice catchphrase. But flipped around, it is more troubling: suffering is desire. Not a unidirectional arrow, not causal, as in, desire leads to suffering. Desire is suffering, and therefore, by axiom, suffering is desire.

They don't know what they want. They want cool Asian shit.

What do you want a meaning for? Life is a desire, not a meaning.

Perfect love is the most beautiful of all frustrations because it is more than one can express.

What do you want meaning for? Life is desire, not meaning.

all lovers are vampires)

One day, when I am a braver man, I will tell her these things, and then I will look her in the eye tell her I love her and ask her to be only mine. But until that day, we're just friends.

One day, when I am a braver man, I will tell her these things, and then I will look her in the eye tell her I love her and ask her to be only mine. But until that day, we're just friends.

You are what you love, not what loves you.

Why do I fall in love with every woman I see that shows me the least bit of attention?

We are what we love, not what loves us.

She was so hot and so... hidden. He could live a million years and never know her. A really good daydream, a piss-poor girlfriend.

I've always known I wanted a family.

I have little left in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh -- may call me absurd, selfish -- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.

I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived, great and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.

I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen: that I desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach.

She turned of an ashy paleness as cold hatred and desire for revenge took possession of her vindictive soul.

Dare my guilty heart admit the horrible acknowledgement that I love you still?

This was the scene she saw in her mind. What he needed--or at least wanted. Submission. Stepping around the chair, she stood before him. Dropping the sheet she had used to wrap around herself, she stood before him, naked, listening to his sharp inhalation of breath. Then, she lay at his feet, just as she saw in his mind. "No," he whispered, but she knew this was what he wanted. Her to come to him willingly. To accept him as he was.