My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery—always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? Whats this passion for?
There is no passion to be found playing small – in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.
Passion is the sum-total of humanity. Without passion, religion, history, romance, art, would all be useless.[Also known as:]All humanity is passion; without passion, religion, history, novels, art would be ineffectual.
Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their life a mimicry, their passions a quotation.
Man can never know the kind of loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in a woman’s womb only to gather strength, he nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion. The woman may be busy too, but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she has bathed, and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love is a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child-bearing and man-bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to BE. But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment when man rests inside of her.
Love is of all the passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and the body.