Quotes About Desire

she'd have been gnawing her way through his bedroom walls to sink her avid fingers into his youthful flesh.

Rezábamos por la vacuidad, para hacernos dignas de ser llenadas: de gracia, de amor, de abnegación, de semen y de niños. Oh, Dios, Rey del universo, gracias por no haberme hecho hombre. Oh, Dios, destrúyeme. Házme fértil. Mortifica mi carne para que pueda multiplicarme. Permite que me realice…

A romantika valahol a középtávolban zajlik. A romantika nem más, mint benézni önmagadhoz harmattól párás ablakon át. A romantika nem más, mint kihagyni bizonyos dolgokat: ahol az élet röfög és szortyog, ott a romantika csak sóhajt.

They should all be cheered by it, for isn't it what they want? What we all want: to leave a message behind us that has an effect, if only a dire one: a message that cannot be cancelled out.

At least, I said, she's got what she thinks she wants, and I suppose that's something.

the thing was airborne. Desire and fear were universal, between them they'd been the gravediggers.

Is that all there is? they must be thinking. Shouldn't it be less ordinary, more sordid, more epic, more truly harrowing, this flesh wound of your? Tell us more! Couldn't we please crank up the pain?

I hate petit point. I want to make bread." "We can't always do what we want," said Zilla gently. "Even you." "And sometimes we have to do what we hate," said Vera. "Even you." "Don't let me, then!" I said. "You're being mean!" And I ran out of the kitchen.

Having long ago whispered I want to die, I now realize that this wish will indeed be fulfilled, and sooner rather than later. No matter that I've changed my mind about it. I

I am in love with his need

In Tin's already jaded view, experiences were what you got when you couldn't get what you wanted, but Jorrie had always been more optimistic than him.

Is it disapproval or extreme lust? Toby wonders. With some men it's hard to tell the difference.

Nothing is ever settled," says Jocelyn. "Every day is different. Isn't it better to do something because you've decided to? Rather than because you have to?" "No, it isn't," says Charmaine. "Love isn't like that. With love, you can't stop yourself." She wants the helplessness, she wants…

Although I'm afraid of this idea and ashamed of it, and although in the daytime I find it melodramatic and ludicrous and refuse to believe in it, I also cherish it. It's like the secret bottle stashed away by alcoholics: I may have no desire to use it, right now, but I feel more secure knowing it's there. It's a fallback, it's a vice, it's an exit. It's a weapon.

The minimalist life. Pleasure is an egg. Blessings that can be counted, on the fingers of one hand. But possibly this is how I am expected to react. If I have an egg, what more can I want?

What would that be like - to long, to yearn for someone who is right there before your eyes, day in and day out?

For the ones who come after you, it will be easier. They will accept their duties with willing hearts. She did not say: Because they will have no memories, of any other way. She said: Because they won't want things they can't have.

It's all about sex and territory, which are what will finish us off in the long run.

What he couldn't have in life he might still catch sight of through his art: just a glimpse, from the corner of his eye

What well-to-do and once-young, once-beautiful woman or man, cranked up on hormonal supplements and shot full of vitamins but hampered by the unforgiving mirror, wouldn't sell their house, their gated retirement villa, their kids, and their soul to get a second kick at the sexual can?

she was beginning to emerge from the initial sex-induced coma created by him through

Whatever our shapes and features, we were snares and enticements despite ourselves, we were the innocent and blameless causes that through our very nature could make men drunk with lust, so that they'd stagger and lurch and topple over the verge—The verge of what? we wondered. Was it like a cliff?—and go plunging down in flames, like snowballs made of burning sulphur hurled by the angry hand of God.

He liked to imagine that if he hadn't been a minor, and she his teacher and subject to abuse charges, she'd have been gnawing her way through his bedroom walls to sink her avid fingers into his youthful flesh.

He held a knife against her breast, As into his arms she pressed, sang the girl. I could just leave, thought Richard. But he didn't want to do that. Oh Willy Willy, don't you murder me, I'm not prepared for eternity. Sex and violence, he thinks now. A lot of the songs were about that. We didn't even notice. We thought it was art.