Quotes About Desire

All my life my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name." andre breton

Her thighs are oiled and dark, and oblivion never felt as good as it does now

I wished for nothing beyond her smile, and to walk with her thus, hand in hand, along a sun warmed, flower bordered path.

Men dream things — because men must have that which is beyond human reckoning to satisfy the need for comfort and a hedge against fear.

This happiness rendered absurd men's desire to dominate, to kill, to possess, thought Volsky. For neither Mila nor he possessed anything. Their joy came from the things one does not possess, from what other people had abandoned or scorned. But, above all, this sunset, this scent of warm bark, these clouds above the young trees in the graveyard, these belonged to everybody!

I have no appetite,' she sighed. 'Not for food, not for work. Not for anything.' I looked at her and wondered what I am except appetite.

In that light, across the field, is all I will never have. Next to me is all I will.

Sex standing up and walking on sand will bring any man to a bad end. He

Quieres que te prepare algo para comer? —Tú sólo piensas en dos cosas. No aclaró cuáles eran, pero tampoco era necesario

In the world men seem to exercise power, but all of that comes to nothing in the face of the lust provoked by a woman. Whatever he does to her, she is still more powerful than he is because he wants her, he needs her, he is being driven by a desire for her. In the sexual woman-superior model, power is articulated as being intrinsically female because power is redefined beyond reason, beyond coherence: as if power is in the corpse that draws the vultures.

Critiques of rape, pornography, and prostitution are "sex-negative" without qualification or examination, perhaps because so many men use these ignoble routes of access and domination to get laid, and without them the number of fucks would so significantly decrease that men might nearly be chaste.

A man wants what a woman has - sex. He can steal it, persuade her to give it away, rent it, , lease it over the long term, or own it outright.

Ethereal or promiscuous, she is stigmatized by the awesome drive behind her desire, the restlessness of her soul on earth, the mercilessness of her passion, [...] Her desire is grandiose and amoral, beyond the timidity she practices and the conscious morality she knows. She is stigmatized by her capacity for passion, not unlike artistic genius, the great wildness of a soul forever discontent with existing forms and their meanings; but she, unlike the artist, has no adequate means of expression.

On my twenty-fifth birthday, when I had lived one quarter of a century, I was nearly dead, almost catatonic, without the will to live. By my twenty-sixth birthday, I wanted more than anything to live. I was one year old, an infant born out of a corpse, still with the smell of death on her, but hating death.

She wanted a passion larger than what she perceived as mere physical sex, a passion less commonplace (less vulgar); and though Tennessee Williams frames her as a model of repression, [...] in fact the character he created is too immense and original for that to be true, John too small and ordinary.

She moved closer, gripping Reed's biceps and tilting back her head to give him better access. He took the cue, pulling her against him, nudging her arms up around his neck, then slanting his mouth across hers and kissing her senseless. It was a wildly erotic awakening, hot and slow and shivering with promise.

For true love joins the hearts of two persons with so great a feeling of delight that they cannot desire to embrace anybody else; on the contrary they take care to avoid the solaces of everybody else as though they were horrible things, and they keep themselves for each other.

Love is a certain inborn suffering derived from the sight of and excessive meditation upon the beauty of the opposite sex, which causes each one to wish above all things the embraces of the other and by common desire to carry out all of love's precepts in the other's embrace.

Love is a certain inborn suffering.

All that I wanted was to tempt into life things that wanted to come out of me.

I love your eyes, my darling friend, Their play so passionate and bright'ning, When a sudden stare up you send, And like a heaven-blown lightning, It'd take in all from end to end But there's more that I admire: Your eyes when they're downcast In bursts of love-inspired fire And through the eyelash goes fast A somber, dull call of desire..

Why are they all trying to make me into a saint? Oh God! Oh God! I want to do things. Stop turning me into a saint.

But how can I put a name to what it is that I want? How am I to know that I really don't want what I want, or that I really don't want what I don't want? These are intangibles that the moment you name them their meaning evaporates like jellyfish in the sun.

I feel restricted, my soul is restricted inside me, I need another living space.