Quotes About Desire

A veces me siento desdichada, nada más que de no saber qué es lo que estoy echando de menos.

The exotic and the erotic ideals go hand in hand, and this fact also contributes another proof of a more or less obvious truth - that is, that a love of the exotic is usually an imaginative projection of a sexual desire.

Well, at heart I knew she'd never be a normal woman. And I didn't want her to be one, because what I loved in her were the indomitable and unpredictable aspects of her personality

Jealousy was not a green-eyed monster, she thought. It was red in tooth and claw, with glaring, fiery eyes. Her

The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs, Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways When all the wild summer was in her gaze. —WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

So much longing. So many lives filled with longing. It's what stories? all our stories? are made of. And what is longing made of except hope?

Oh, I should like to ride the seas, A roaring buccaneer; A cutlass banging at my knees, A dirk behind my ear. And when my captives' chains would clank I'd howl with glee and drink, And then fling out the quivering plank And watch the beggars sink. I'd like to straddle gory decks, And dig in laden sands, And know the feel of throbbing necks Between my knotted hands. Oh, I should like to strut and curse Among my blackguard crew....

The longing for sweets is really a yearning for love or "sweetness.

All those films in which the woman doesn't get her man, those films of yearning unsatisfied, hearts unappeased. You like them; I've liked them too. But I'll tell you what: try belonging body and soul to a man who will never belong to you; see how well you like those films then. "Don't ask for the moon-we have the stars!" ... "Pardon me saying so, but fuck the fucking stars!

The sight made her ache. How can I not touch you? she thought hopelessly, and then she was doing it, her fingers on his wrist. He didn't jump or even look at her, just stopped writing. Neither one of them moved, nothing moved, and the whole thing lasted three or four seconds at most, but when Pen took her hand away and started to breathe again, her chest hurt, as though she had been holding her breath for a very long time.

In my experience, people love what they love. They just do.

In my experience, people love what they love. They just do. Or fail to love what they fail to love.

Honestly, the idea of wanting to spend time with people one did not love absolutely mystified her.

A real life doesn't mean getting what you want; the achievement, the priviledge, too, is knowing what you love. But getting what you love? Having what you love love you back? Oh, my friend, its a miracle: your one tiny life's head-on collision with divinity.

She only hoped, and her hope was slender- a wisp of hope, a ghost.

since she and Marcus and her mother left, she's been close to obsessed with wanting

I'd figured out that a real life didn't mean attaining my heart's desire, but knowing it, meant not the satisfaction, but the longing. Knowing what you love and why, I found out, is as real as it gets.

I'd figured out that a real life didn't mean attaining my heart's desire, but knowing it, meant not in the satisfaction, but the longing. Knowing what you love and why, I found out, is as real as it gets.

Mi única locura fue esperar tantos años. Pero no me arrepiento. Hice lo que tenía que hacer. Lo maté así porque yo quería que sufra, que tenga una muerte fea. Quería vengarme por todo lo que me hizo. Lo peor es que yo me conozco: si no lo mataba, me iba a quedar con él, porque yo lo quería, me parece.

Denial, particularly self-denial, is its own kind of pleasure.

Tomorrow will have a diet in it, maybe not a go-for-broke diet or even one that involves tracking calories, but I will always be conscious of what I eat and how much I exercise. That's why body neutrality doesn't feel like a good fit: I'm never going to stop wanting to be thinner or to stop chasing it. I know my life will always be this way, and I'm okay with that. That acceptance, even if it's an uneasy one, is my new normal.

he] knows this, just as he knows that any story told about what has happened in the past can never be certain, that there is always yearning in the piecing together of information. The story of history is the story of its telling and its retelling. There are truths lost to time and desire.

Because every one of us has our box, a dark chamber stowing the thing that lanced our heart. It contains what you do everything for, strive for, wound everything around you.

It's what we chase but never find. It is the mystery of our lives, the understanding that even when we have everything we want it is one day to leave us. It's the something unseen, the lurking devastation, the darkness that gives our lives dimension.