Quotes About Desire

And you should try to do what you want. We should all try to do whatever we want in life. I mean, what is the point otherwise?

He couldn't tell her that what he wanted now, more than anything, was to fall asleep beside her. No touching, no kissing, no stimulation. No sensation, no consciousness. Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.

Loveless, we lay together.

Married life proved not very different from premarried life, except now there was the desire for solidity instead of expansion.

Someone has to love me," he said. "As far as I can tell, the job is currently unoccupied.

She was sexy in a malnourished way; you felt that if you took her to bed, first you would have to give her a hot meal.

Jonah couldn't tell her that what he wanted now, more than anything, was to fall asleep beside her. No touching, no kissing, no stimulation. No sensation, no consciousness. Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.

Even not knowing that yet, she felt an intuitive urgency. What she wanted-- and wanted now-- was to be loved by someone who excited her.

I want to not think so much about what I want, and what I missed out on. I want to think about other things—other people, in other places even. I am so tired of all the little ironic in-jokes, and reciting lines from TV shows and movies and books. Everything from the . . . circumscribed world. I want an uncircumscribed world.

We're all the same under our skin, aren't we? We're all wanting things we don't understand. Things we can't even name. The yearning so deep, like pinions over our hearts.

Suddenly,I want to hold the whole night close to my chest and I decide it is mine alone

She looks down at me, her eyes depthful and ruinous. "Love is a kind of killing, Addy,' she says. 'Don't you know that?

We never know, none of us, what love'll do to us.

Like all that you are is the wanting, and the rest of you just burns away?

In some animal part of my brain, I guess I thought looking her up might somehow summon her. So I never did. And she came anyway.

Something was consuming the girl. I need help. She thought of her in that interview room, slightly breathless and entrancing. Wanting desperately to be told that nothing was her fault, that her body and brain had conspired against her. The feeling she must have, always, of being in between worlds, the worlds separated only by an impenetrable pane of glass.

My head is so full of plans that it seems aflame.

If you didn't feel it on your body long after he'd left, was it really worth laying for him? I wanted to feel that.

you will have to fight your entire life. And that's why you'll always be better. Because you wanted it so much more.

that the things you want, you never get them. And if you do, they're not what you thought they'd be. But you'd still do anything to keep them. Because you'd wanted them for so long.

Because---and this was the first time I understood this--- everyone always like the best, wants the most, admires deeply, the girl who's just out of reach. The girl no one can touch, really. We don't know why we're drawn, but it's unstoppable.

This girl, this girl, and he a man with a business and a secretary and a house with a furnace and bills and a son and a roof with three shingles and a pretty birdpath made of stone that I sometimes see Mrs.Shaw, her tied back with a scarf, cleaning with a dainty skimmer. How does this man, a man like this, like any of them, come to walk at night and stand in a girl's backyard, and then, smoking and looking up, suddenly feel himself helpless to bher bright magic?

I still feel like teenage girls are not taken seriously by the culture at large, especially not their darker or more complicated feelings—of aggression, desire, ambition. To me, these feelings and drives are so fundamental to girlhood and to womanhood, and I love exploring them. And trying to give voice to them as best I can. I think women are always trying to figure out their own adolescence. We never stop.

No way," he said, shaking his head, shaking the image of Lise, bare-legged, her skirt hitched high, from his thoughts. "Lise, she's a sister to me." "Oh," she said, fingertips making circles just above the waist of her skirt. Wider and wider circles. "A sister," he repeated. He looked at her. There was something scratching again, in the corner above his eye, like those metal probes at the dentist clawing at your teeth.