Quotes About Desire

Well, he thought, one did what one had to do, so life went. No, one did what one had to do in order to do what one wanted to do - so life really went.

The immortalist thesis is that the time has come for the race to get rid of the intimidating gods in its own head -- grow up out of our cosmic inferiority complex (no more dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return...), bring our disguised desire into the open, and go after what we want, the only state of being we will settle for, which is divinity.

He was an animal, that great thing for someone else to be.

But of course he had never done more than hug Toby and kiss him on the cheek; he had twice had a peep at his penis at a college urinal. Here, in a tiny flat in unknown Willesden, he was talking to the mother of the man who called him not only a 'damn good fuck' but also a 'hot little cocksucker' with 'a first-class degree in arse-licking'. Which clearly was way beyond hugging and peeping. Nick gazed at her in a trance of revelation and gratitude. And

Consoling and yet absurd, how the sexual imagination took such easy possession of the ungiving world. I was certainly not alone in this carriage in sliding my thoughts between the legs of other passengers. Desires, brutal or tender, silent but evolved, were in the shiftless air, and hung about each jaded traveller, whose life was not as good as it might have been.

In most children but in relatively few adults, at least in our time, we may see this willingness to be delighted to the point of self-abandonment. This free and full gift of oneself to a story is what produces the state of enchantment. But why do we lose the desire—or if not the desire, the ability—to give ourselves in this way?

O western wind, when wilt thou blow That the small rain down can rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms And I in my bed again!

He feels himself falling. He wants to spend every minute with her, he wants to possess her, her purity, her body, her mind. She is what he has been waiting for. Now he can live.

man can do what he wants," said Schopenhauer, "but not want what he wants.

You know what I wish? I wish all the scum of the Earth had one throat and I had my hands about it.

Sex is glorious, it's how we all got here, and it's most people's favourite activity.

I have so very much. I have so very little.

I am tired of this world, these people. I am tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives.

Star light, star bright, The first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.

War is a perversion of sex.

Quitting my day job and starting my life as a writer was a tremendous risk. It was a fool's leap, a shot in the dark. But anything of any value in our lives, whether that be a career, a work of art, a relationship, will always start with such a leap. And in order to be able to make it you have to put aside the fear of failing and the desire of succeeding. (...) Because things that we do without lust of result are the purest actions that we shall ever take.

If we loved Steve Aylett , really loved him in the way that he deserves, a selfless love that genuinely wanted nothing save his happiness and comfort, we'd lobotomise him.

There is something in death akin to that which exists in love: both spur men to eloquence.

If the audience knew what they wanted then they wouldn't be the audience, they would be the artist.

The air grows too warm, too quickly. I want very much for a beautiful woman to hand me a glass of very cold beer. All the atoms in the test chamber are screaming at once. The light. . . the light is taking me to pieces.

Acababa de ver lo que queda de un hombre cuando a todo lo que es, a todo lo que cree ser, se le resta la mujer que ama.

El amor no abraza, pensaba Rímini: hiere. No inunda, se clava.

La membrana dell'amore è delicata, basta un graffio accidentale a lacerarla. Se i dubbi di Rìmini l'avevano danneggiata, rendendola vulnerabile all'infezione che, per un innamorato, cova nel desiderio di vivere una vita diversa dalla propria, l'esperienza della catastrofe era bastata a rigenerarla.

Sofìa non era sparita, non era morta, era con lui, e lo amava ancora. Cos'era il resto, tutto il resto, se non pura futilità?