Quotes About Obsession

Fionn was stuck in the most unlikely of places. He wanted to fuck the woman he planned to use in his vengeance. It was inconvenient to say the least

Her thirst for vengeance was greater than her love for you.

Muazzez'de Yusuf'u hemen hemen ayn? hislerle sevmekteydi.Onun a?k?nda da esas amil, di?erinin "lüzumlu" bir ?ey olmas?,onsuz hayat?n tasavvur edilmesine bile imkan bulunmamas?yd?.

A?k muhakkak ki bir hastal?k... A??k oldu?umuzu ilk zamanlarda kendimizden bile saklamak istememiz zaten bunun bir hastal?k oldu?unu gösteriyor... Biz mütemadiyen: De?ilim, de?ilim!.. diyoruz. Ve onu ancak, kolumuzu k?m?ldatamayacak kadar bize hakim oldu?u zaman kabul ediyoruz.

Lord help her, she didn't care where Byrne took her. Let hellfire consume her and the devil steal her soul. Because any hell with Byrne in it was better than a heaven without him.

Deuce take it, he was in over his head. But it didn't matter. He'd ruined her, and marriage was the only way to fix that. "Oliver?" she whispered. He stared down at her delicate features, flushed from their exertions, and felt the same swell of possessiveness that had made him claim her with all the subtlety of an ox. Mine…mine…mine. The words still rang in his ears. Definitely in over his head.

I never forgot you for one day, one hour, on moment. It was you, always you. Everything I did, was for you. No one else.

I never forgot you for one day, one hour, one moment. It was you--always you. Everything I did was for you , damn it. No one else.

It was seen as a way of misusing life, of encroaching into areas where you should not. It was practiced only by certain types of people obsessed with power or money.

Looking back, I think I really was at least slightly out of my mind. I viewed narcotics as most people regard food. I wore my guns as today I wear my neckties. Deep down, I actually believed that after living as fully as humanly possible, one should then die violently. I expected then, as I still expect today, to die at any time. But then, I think I deliberately invited death in many, sometimes insane, ways.

We were in that world of Negroes who are both servants and psychologists, aware that white people are so obsessed with their own importance that they will pay liberally, even dearly, for the impression of being catered to and entertained.

I knew that Malcolm X had an almost fanatical obsession about time. I have less patience with someone who doesn't wear a watch than with anyone else , for this type is not time-conscious, he had once told me.

Years ago, a drug addict said something very profound to me. He said I didn't understand about addiction. His life was only about one thing: getting drugs. It simplified his life in that all the other things people have to think about, worry about, and deal with—he didn't. His life wasn't easy, but it was simple, cut down to what he could cope with. You will find this same attitude in people who try to reduce life to only one thing. This includes being obsessed about danger.

This is the problem about thinking about something else to take your mind off something. It works for a little while, but in the end you always come back to the thing you were trying not to think about, only now whatever it was is worse.

People who love what they do wear themselves down doing it, they even forget to wash or eat.

everyone is worth just so much as those things are worth in which he is interested.

I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.

But hatred and viciousness are addictive. You can get high on them. Once you've had a little, you start shaking if you don't get more.

Even sex was no longer what it had once been, though he was still as addicted to it as ever. He felt jerked around by his own dick, as if the rest of him was merely an inconsequential knob that happened to be attached to one end of it. Maybe the thing would be happier if left to roam around on its own.

But we still find the world astounding, we can't get enough of it; even as it shrivels, even as its many lights flicker and are extinguished (the tigers, the leopard frogs, the plunging dolphin flukes), flicker and are extinguished, by us, by us, we gaze and gaze. Where do you draw the line, between love and greed? We never did know, we always wanted more. We want to take it all in, for one last time, we want to eat the world with our eyes.

Once in a while, though, he went on binges. He would sneak into bookstores or libraries, lurk around the racks where the little magazines were kept; sometimes he'd buy one. Dead poets were his business, living ones his vice. Much of the stuff he read was crap and he knew it; still, it gave him an odd lift. Then there would be the occasional real poem, and he would catch his breath. Nothing else could drop him through space like that, then catch him; nothing else could peel him open.

He'd wanted to track down and personally injure anyone who had ever done harm to her or made her unhappy. He'd tortured himself with painful knowledge: every white-hot factoid he could collect he'd shove up under his fingernails. The more it hurt, the more--he was convinced--he loved her.

One boy had drawn a perfect isosceles triangle on every single page- meticulously, it was emphasized. Meticulously was a chilling touch: meticulousness, we knew, was just one step away from full-blown lunacy.

Extreme emotions could be lethal. If I can't have you nobody will , and so forth. Death could set in.