Quotes About Obsession

Besides, I have seen people becoming helpless when they lose their mobiles. It's actually worse than drug addiction.

I went to college when I was 27, and somehow, between high school and college, I became obsessed with getting A's. I can tell you exactly how many non-A's I had, and tell you honestly that I cried every time!

I think 'She Drives Me Crazy' is hilarious and good.

I kind of got really, really into 'Hill Street Blues' when it came out. I used to leave a class early just to make sure I could watch the episode of 'Hill Street Blues' that day.

One purpose, one thought, one obsession dominated that mind now. It burned in the brain of Darth Vader as he turned down another passageway in the broken fighter.

There are women, returned my uncle, some of them of the most admired, who are slaves to a demoniacal love of power. The very pleasure of their consciousness consists in the knowledge that they have power--not power to do things, but power to make other people do things. [Uncle; Flight of the Shadow]

if Donal was in any danger of loving the things of this world, it was in the shape of books–books he had a strong inclination to accumulate and hoard.

The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity.

He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless,because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so ...

The following are the principal characteristics of nationalist thought: Obsession. As nearly as possible, no nationalist ever thinks, talks, or writes about anything except the superiority of his own power unit.

Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax.

Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so.

You can possess money, or you can despise money; the one fatal thing is to worship money and fail to get it.

WHAT WAS MORE, I ACTUALLY HAD A FEELING THAT THEY WERE AFTER ME ALREADY. THE WHOLE LOT OF THEM! ALL THE PEOPLE WHO COULDN'T UNDERSTAND WHY A MIDDLE-AGED MAN WITH FALSE TEETH SHOULD SNEAK AWAY FOR A QUIET WEEK IN THE PLACE WHERE HE SPENT HIS BOYHOOD. AND ALL THE MEAN-MINDED BASTARDS WHO COULD UNDERSTAND ONLY TOO WELL, AND WHO'D RAISE HEAVEN AND EARTH TO PREVENT IT. THEY WERE ALL ON MY TRACK.

Fanaticism consists of redoubling your efforts when you have forgotten your aim.

Strange, isn't it? To have dedicated one's life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one's life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one's labors utterly forgotten?

Strange, isn't it? To have dedicated one's life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one's life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one's labors utterly forgotten? lawrence t. decroix

Strange, isn't it? To have dedicated one's life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one's life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one's labors utterly forgotten? lawrence t. decroix Fortunately

I remember that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed,we crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty girl. Her head was almost totally ripped off by the wheels. For a long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror and despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another.

The emotional element which gives an obsessive value to communal existence is death.

I began to willfully indulge in dreams that, with the help of a bottle of wine, became completely mad and were close to being loathsome.

It is the twenty-third of June nineteen seventy-five, and it is eight o'clock in the evening. Seated at his jigsaw puzzle, Bartlebooth has just died.

The only man who is truly happy is a man who has an idée fixe. It takes up his every minute, fills any empty spaces in his thought, sneaks unexpected pleasures into his boredom, gives direction to his idle hours, again and again enlivens the stagnant waters of existence with a surging current.