Quotes About Compulsion

Shower while there were two dead bodies in the bathtub, and he was sane. He drilled holes in the heads of living people to make them his unresisting companions, and he was sane. He ate a bicep which he fried in a skillet, tenderised and sprinkled with sauce, and he was sane. For hours he lay with corpses, hugging them, cherishing them, and he was sane. He kept eleven assorted heads and skulls, and two complete skeletons, for eventual use in a home-made temple, and he was sane.

I never sensed the feeling of killing as such, only a feeling of stopping something terrible from happening, a compulsion to squeeze the person by the throat to relieve and absolve him and me from something terrible.

I can't get through a single day without that damned pigswill -- beer.

Writing is more than anything a compulsion, like some people wash their hands thirty times a day for fear of awful consequences if they do not. It pays a whole lot better than this type of compulsion, but it is no more heroic.

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me...

Es imposible retroceder en el tiempo, no debo mirar hacia atrás, sin embargo no puedo dejar de hacerlo, es una obsesión.

like when I walk along a pavement in Porteneil and I accidentally scuff one heel on a paving stone. I have to scuff the other foot as well, with as near as possible the same weight, to feel good again.

Surely the Greeks had a word for it, choosing to act in one's own very worst interests? Yes, they did. It was akrasia.

The new, wellspring of all bad dreams. Driven by a self-harming compulsion, I listen closely to analysis and dissent.

Celor ce nu-È™i pot lua gândul de la o nedreptate li se întâmpl? uneori s? suprapun?, în minte, dorinÈ›a de revan?? cu sentimentul unei obligaÈ›ii morale.

Kissing me won't make me more agreeable, she whispered. I'm not trying to make you more agreeable. His voice was rough and low. I just can't help myself.

Three cigarettes in, your body already craves it. It is that addictive.

I have thoughts - obtrusive thoughts and rituals that have to - it's like a broken re - a skipping record. And if these thoughts or these triggers happen to me through maybe shaking a hand or just a thought or just - then I can't get past it and move on with my life.

How often I have found that we grow to maturity not by doing what we like, but by doing what we should. How true it is that not every 'should' is a compulsion, and not every 'like' is a high morality and true freedom.

When we start deceiving ourselves into thinking not that we want something... but that it is a moral imperative that we have it, that is when we join the fashionable madmen.

I think these are very improper questions for any American to be asked, especially under such compulsion as this. I would be very glad to tell you my life if you want to hear of it.

The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.

You can tell me to stop any time you want, but you won't.

Addiction is when you can't get enough of what you don't want any more.

Kessa began to cut her meat into tiny pieces. As a whole it was unmanageable, frightening; but divided and arranged, the meat could be controlled. She cut four pieces. She'd count to four between each bite.

Is it possible that a person's childhood fascination with some object could subtly influence every other decision made during his or her life, a snowballing of interests, propelled by obsession and compulsion, that rolls on long after the initial discovery is forgotten?

Kärlek är någonting som man inte kan rå för.

There is something out there for me, he thought, and then he chided himself for the melodrama of the idea. There is something out there for everyone, everywhere, if they have the courage to look. He knew he was no different from anyone else. Perhaps he had simply become the victim of calenture, and had not realised it. He did not feel fevered and yet his compulsion was undeniably mazy.

Above Verity and Daniel, in the lounge of Low Mede, Peveral Othman watched Barbara and Louis make love on the rug before the log-effect gas fire. He took some satisfaction from their relief, from Louis' almost tearful gratitude for the body he now inhabited. Othman felt he should go and visit the Winters, although for some reason, he felt compelled to stay at Low Mede. He knew he would feel vulnerable beyond the walls. He was not strong enough at the moment to control Lily and Owen.