Quotes About Obsession

He wondered briefly what it was like to dream. He never did. Possibly because he so seldom slept. He was obsessed with obtaining all the wealth he could, burning the midnight oil as often as possible. It protected a person from having to do things he didn't want to do.

Is there nothing you want so desperately that you'd be willing to do anything in order to acquire it?

He look back toward the dance floor and greeted his teeth. She was in Tristan's arms moving gracefully in rhythm with the music. Tristan with cutting quite a swath through the ladies, he knew it shouldn't grate that his brother was dancing with Mary. Tristan knew more than he knew any of the others. It was expected. But still he didn't like the way Tristan watched her through hooded eyes. But then Tristan caught his gaze an issue a silent challenge: cut in. I dare you.

He'd follow her to hell to claim it was due to him. Unfortunately, he suspected she was headed for heaven, which was barred to him.

But you also admitted to her being in the shadows and not having a clear view of him." "What would be his motive?" "Perhaps he saw me kissing Mary." "Killing the man for kissing your betrothed seems a bit drastic." I would, he thought, surprised by the vehement behind the words.

you sleep naked in my brain and I dare not rest

There's no point discussing an engagement with a person determined that nothing will convince her that her love is not the be-all and end-all of her life.

It was funny how obsessed people believed others equally obsessed, or even interested.

He was like an addict before a fix. Book freaks are like that, and not just old guys. Look at kids lining up for the latest installment of their favorite books. Stories, they're addictive." Gamache

Chief Inspector Gamache knew one thing about hate. It bound you forever to the person you hated.

And she didn't care about any one, just this one.

He wasn't addicted to pain, to panic, but he might be addicted to the bliss of having them stop. The mind, he knew, really was its own place.

i will not have him in my brain;there is no room for anyone else in the cakeshop of agony. it's crowded enough in there already.

Lots of men are like that, their artistic leanings never go beyond a weakness for shapely thighs.

Hugh had been her obsession. When he was away, she had assumed he was with other women. It drove her crazy, dominated her thoughts. She had tried to concentrate on her daughters, but her own insecurity was much too huge. When Skye would beg for a story or Clea would need help with her music lessons, Augusta would tell them to ask Caroline. So Augusta could be with Hugh.

Whenever Ter read a book, rarely—he would rip each page off and throw it away. I would come home, to where the windows were always open or broken and the whole room would be swirling with pages, like Safeway lot pigeons.

Il padre gli aveva regalato un libro con l'incendio di Troia in copertina, e lui, da grande, non trovò pace finché non scoprì i resti dell'antica città di Priamo. Non

their phones actually, trying to get inside them somehow,

E quale è di pazzia segno più espresso che, per altri voler, perder se stesso?

I've always been a loner, and I've never really felt like I belong here. I'm like one of those women who read Jane Austen obsessively and still hope that Mr. Darcy might show up at the door. Or the Civil War reenactors, who growl at each other on battlefields now spotted with baseball fields and park benches. I'm the princess in an ivory tower, except every brick is made of history, and I built this prison myself.

When Javert finally realized that Valjean had something he himself didn't—mercy—did he shrug and find a new obsession, like knitting or Game of Thrones? No. Because without Valjean to hate, he didn't know who he was anymore.

That's the thing about being obsessed with the past. It keeps you from having to notice the present.

The reason I am still sitting at Josef's kitchen table is the same reason traffic slows after a car wreck—you want to see the damage; you can't let yourself pass without that mental snapshot. We are drawn to horror even as we recoil from it.

How come the people who don't even notice you exist are the ones you can't stop thinking about?