Quotes About Desire

If I thought this would never happen again I would die. But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.

Ah men, why do you want all this attention? I can write poems for myself, make love to a doorknob if absolutely necessary. What do you have to offer me I can't find otherwise except humiliation? Which I no longer need.

Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings...but there's something dead about it, something deserted.

No one wants to die," said Becka. "But some people don't want to live in any of the ways that are allowed.

I wish I didn't have to think about you. You wanted to impress me; well, I'm not impressed, I'm disgusted...You wanted to make damn good and sure I'd never be able to turn over in bed again without feeling that body beside me, not there but tangible, like a leg that's been cut off. Gone but the place still hurts.

At moments like this I envy those who have found a safe haven in which to bestow their hearts; or perhaps I envy them for having a heart to bestow. I often feel that I myself am without one, and possess in its stead merely a heart shaped stone.

I'm not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

I'll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I'll make you me.

When power is scarce, a little of it is tempting.

He stops, looks up at this window, and I can see the white oblong of his face. We look at each other. I have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it's the same kind of hunger.

On these occasions I read quickly, voraciously, almost skimming, trying to get as much into my head as possible before the next long starvation. If it were eating it would be gluttony of the famished; if it were sex it would be a swift furtive stand-up in an alley somewhere.

Come away with me, he said, we will live on a desert island. I said, I am a desert island. It was not what he had in mind.

expectation isn't the same as desire

Still, I wanted to believe; indeed I longed to; and, in the end, how much of belief comes from longing?

Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!

Screw poetry, it's you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin.

Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.

But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

Sex is like a drink, it's bad to start brooding about it too early in the day.

When you can't tell the difference between your own pleasure and your pain then you're an addict.

Experiences were what you got when you couldn't get what you wanted.

If they want a monster so badly they ought to be provided by one.

I want, I don't want. How can one live with such a heart?