Quotes About Desire

Now the tragedy of an attachment is that if its object is not attained it causes unhappiness. But if it is attained, it does not cause happiness—it merely causes a flash of pleasure followed by weariness; and it is always accompanied, of course, by the anxiety that you may lose the object of your attachment.

En primer lugar, tus apegos: inevitablemente, siempre prestarás atención a lo que favorece o pone en peligro dichos apegos, y fingirás no ver lo demás. Lo demás

Take a look at the people around you. Is there a single person among them who hasn't become addicted to those worldly feelings? Is there a single person who is not controlled by them, hungering for them, spending every minute of their waking life consciously or unconsciously seeking them? When you see this, you will understand how people attempt to gain the world and, in the process, lose their soul. For they live empty, soulless lives.

Mejor dicho: experimentas un instante de placer, que en modo alguno constituye la felicidad, porque viene acompañado de un difuso temor a que, en cualquier momento, ese mundo de cosas y personas que con tanto esfuerzo has conseguido construir escape a tu control y te llene de frustración, que es algo que, tarde o temprano, acaba siempre por suceder

If you seek kicks or thrills, get ready for depression. Do you want your drug? Get ready for the hangover. One end of the pendulum swings to the other.

But what you're really telling me is that you want to be desired. You want to be applauded, to be attractive, to have all the little monkeys running after you. You're wasting your life. Wake up! You don't need this. You can be blissfully happy without it. Your society is not going

Why else do any of this if not to become who we want to be?

Who knew love could kill you?

You ever hope for something so much? So much you can't sleep, so much your skull hurts? But the thing is, you don't even know if the thing you're wishing for is possible? You don't even know if it could happen? And it's all out of your control?

He thinks: I only want to sit here with her for a thousand hours.

The urge to know scrapes against the inability to know.

Nothing that could fit on this page, or a hundred of these pages, would possibly accommodate all the things I should say to you, all the things you deserve to hear.

His heart was a catapult in his chest.

Still," he says, "certain things compel people. Pearls, for example, and sinistral shells, shells with a left-handed opening. Even the best scientists feel the urge now and then to put something in a pocket. That something so small could be so beautiful. Worth so much. Only the strongest people can turn away from feelings like that.

All her life she has been told to believe, tried to believe, wanted to believe, that if a person suffers long enough, works hard enough, then she—like Ulysses washing up on the shore of the kingdom of brave Alcinous—will ultimately reach a better place. That through suffering we are redeemed. That by dying we live again. And maybe in the end that's the easier thing. But Anna is tired of suffering. And she is not ready to die.

It was wrong and impossible and illicit and yet each minute with the boy was a gift, a scene from a story he could not leave.

Hardly a couple of ounces of feathers and bones. But that bird can fly to Africa and back. Powered by bugs and worms and desire.

inside her chest pulses something huge, something full of longing, something unafraid.

Warner laces his boots and sings the songs and marches the marches, acting less out of duty than out of a time worn desire to be dutiful.

The bookseller said it's in two parts, and this is the first. I thought that next year, if we keep saving, we can get the second—

Doesn't look like much, does he?" murmurs Frederick. "Hardly a couple of ounces of feathers and bones. But that bird can fly to Africa and back. Powered by bugs and worms and desire." The wagtail hops from twig to twig. Werner rubs his aching eyes. It's just a bird. "Ten thousand years ago," whispers Frederick, "they came through here in the millions. When this place was a garden, one endless garden from end to end.

But that bird can fly to Africa and back. Powered by bugs and worms and desire.

I didn't belong here, high on a crag, among rocks and thorns; I belonged high in the blue, sailing through the clouds, heading to the city where there is no baking sun nor icy wind, where the zephyrs nourish every flower and the hills are always clad in green and no one wants for anything. What a fool I was. What was this hunger that drove me to seek more than what I already had?

Why would he leave when what he seeks is here?