Passion

It is true: we love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving.There is always a certain madness in love. But also there is always a certain method in madness.

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

Sex is kicking death in the ass while singing.

I burned my life, that I might find A passion wholly of the mind, Thought divorced from eye and bone, Ecstasy come to breath alone.

C’est Vénus tout entière à sa proie attachée.

In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others, all she loves is love.

But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?

For flavor, Instant Sex will never supersede the stuff you had to peel and cook.

Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned,

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

Sex is a conversation carried out by other means.

Only passions, great passions, can elevate the soul to great things.

They are not a pipe for fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this.

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

There is no remedy for love but to love more.

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardor gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will.

Love, unconquerable, Waster of rich men, keeper Of warm lights and all-night vigil In the soft face of a girl: Sea-wanderer, forest-visitor! Even the pure immortals cannot escape you, And mortal man, in his one day’s dusk, Trembles before your glory.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

Sometimes my feelings are so hot that I have to take the pen and put them out on paper to keep them from setting me afire inside; then all that ink and labor are wasted because I can't print the results

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

In her first passion woman loves her lover,

Fools! For I also had my hour;

Passion makes the best observations and draws the most wretched conclusions.