Quotes About Desire

What love lays bare in me is energy.

Am I in love? - Yes, since I'm waiting. The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.

The text you write must prove to me that it desires me. This proof exists: it is writing. Writing is: the science of the various blisses of language, its Kama Sutra (this science has but one treatise: writing itself).

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

Am I in love? – yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

A mandarin fell in love with a courtesan. 'I shall be yours,' she told him, 'when you have spent a hundred nights waiting for me, sitting on a stool, in my garden, beneath my window.' But on the ninety-ninth night, the mandarin stood up, put his stool under his arm, and went away.

Absence is the figure of privation; simultaneously, I desire and I need. Desire is squashed against need: that is the obsessive phenomenon of all amorous sentiment.

It is my desire I desire, and the loved being is no more than its tool.

I cannot classify the other, for the other is, precisely, Unique, the singular Image which has miraculously come to correspond to the speciality of my desire. The other is the figure of my truth, and cannot be imprisoned in any stereotype (which is the truth of others).

I ask for nothing but to live in my suffering.

The text you write must prove to me that it desires me.

As a general rule, desire is always marketable: we don't do anything but sell, buy, exchange desires. . . . And I think of Bloy's words: "there is nothing perfectly beautiful except what is invisible and above all unbuyable.

Any demand is frigid until desire, until neurosis forms in it.

This would be the structure of the successful couple: a little prohibition, a good deal of play; to designate desire and then to leave it alone, like those obliging natives who show you the path but don't insist on accompanying you on your way.

Is love then, that madness I *want*?

M? interesez de limbaj pentru c? m? r?ne?te sau m? seduce.

A delirium, however, does not exist unless one wakens from it(there are only retrospective deliriums): one day, I realize what has happened to me: I thought I was suffering from not being loved, and yet it is because I thought I was loved that I was suffering; I lived in the complication of supposing myself simultaneously loved and abandoned. Anyone hearing my intimate language would have had to exclaim, as of a difficult child: But after all, what does he want?

But isn't desire always the same, whether the object is present or absent? Isn't the object always absent?

I was looking at everything in the other's face, the other's body, coldly : lashes, toenail, thin eyebrows, thin lips, the luster of the eyes, a mole, a way of holding a cigarette; I was fascinated-fascination being, after all, only the extreme of detachment-by a kind of colored ceramicized, vitrified figurine in which I could read, without understanding anything about it, the cause of my desire. )

Nela vejo apenas o objeto de um desejo esteticamente retido.

Un mandarín estaba enamorado de una cortesana. «Seré tuya», dijo ella, «cuando hayas pasado cien noches esperándome sentado sobre un banco, en mi jardín, bajo mi ventana». Pero, en la nonagesimonovena noche, el mandarín se levanta, toma su banco bajo el brazo y se va.

Is not any other desire but mine insane?

the amorous subject wonders, not whether he should declare his love to the loved being,..., but to what degree he should conceal the turbulences of his passion, his desires, his distresses: in short, his excesses.

Every contact, for the lover, raises the question of an answer: the skin is asked to reply.