Quotes About Obsession

Fuck no, he wasn't saving her. [...] he was keeping her for himself.

Ice wanted her. For whatever reason, he might even need her.

Are you all right?" he asked gently. "No. I'm never going to be all right again," she said, meaning it. "Jesse, I was looking for normal. I don't think that's what this is. This is obsession, addiction, something crazy. We could kill each other." He rubbed his mouth over her neck. "There's so much more. I could spend days, weeks, showing you more." "I wouldn't survive more," she said

flowers. From your stalker. What do we have on them? I know their names were on the list for the investigators." "I have the

She moved a slow hand to push her hair aside. The small movement sent her muscles clenching around him. Mikhail. Who was this man who had so easily taken over her life and her body? Raven lifted her head and studied his face. So handsome. So dark and mysterious. His eyes held so many secrets; his mouth was so sensual; it took her breath away.

He rested his chin on her belly, his eyes that peculiar shade of Florentine gold. When his eyes were that color, his gaze seemed to burn his name right into her bones, branding her his.

Mine. He nearly spat the word. Telling her. Wanting that word branded into her bones. Wanting his name carved deep into her soul. She. Was. 'His'. His everything.

Dragomir knew he'd never given much thought to love. He'd thought about his lifemate often. He'd been obsessed with finding her for centuries, but he'd never considered what he would feel when he found her. Not love. Not this overwhelming, terrifying feeling that shook him to his core. He hadn't known love could be felt through one's entire body. That it could manifest itself physically.

You just want mixed blood because you took one look at a certain woman and all brain matter went dead," Fen accused. Zev didn't open his eyes or stop feeding. She did make an impression.

Perfectionists and zealots can break but not bend; in my experience they are subject to burnout from diminishing returns or else, to borrow Santayana's definition of the fanatic, they redouble their efforts just when they have lost sight of their ends.

My teeth were nice commodities, and I did enjoy having kidneys, but I'd give them all away if someone threatened to take my Slayer albums from me.

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.— Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies...

We've been rehearsing a classic from antiquity, Green Eggs and Hamlet , the story of a young prince of Denmark who goes mad, drowns his girlfriend, and in his remorse, forces spoiled breakfast on all whom he meets.

It's like he has this power over me—like I have an eating disorder and he's a package of Oreo Double Stuff cookies.

This woman could break my heart. I could crash and burn on this woman. I could lose this woman, drink heavily, write profound poems, and die in the gutter of tuberculosis over this woman.

I'm afraid I've degenerated into a bibliophile.

Not anymore. I'm afraid I've degenerated into a bibliophile. A what? asked Eragon. One who loves books, explained Jeod.

It got so that when he closed his eyes, letters and words danced in his mind. He thought of little else during that time.

When others write about people who live on the edge, who challenge their comfortable lives—and it has happened to me—they usually do it in a way that allows a reader a way out. You could render generosity into pathology, commitment into obsession. That's all in the repertory of someone who wants to put the reader at ease rather than conveying the truth in a compelling manner.

The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.

You don't fall in love because you fall in love; you fall in love because of the need, desperate, to fall in love. when you feel that need, you have to watch your step: like having drunk a philter, the kind that makes you fall in love with the first thing you meet. It could be a duck-billed platypus.

It seems that the Parisian Oulipo group has recently constructed a matrix of all possible murder-story situations and has found that there is still to be written a book in which the murderer is the reader. Moral: there exist obsessive ideas, they are never personal; books talk among themselves, and any true detection should prove that we are the guilty party.

To be intensely educated about the horror of sin and then to be conquered by it. I tell myself that it must be prohibition that kindles fantasy

Holography could prosper only in America, a country obsessed with realism, where, if a reconstruction is to be credible, it must be absolutely iconic, a perfect likeness, a "real" copy of the reality being represented.