Maggie Stiefvater Quotes

I'm just fire.

Love is a burning thing and it makes a firey ring.

The closer a man approaches tragedy the more intense is his concentration of emotion upon the fixed point of his commitment, which is to say the closer he approaches what in life we call fanaticism.

Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.

A mighty flame followeth a tiny spark.

Passion is a sort of fever in the mind, which ever leaves us weaker than it found us.

Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses.

The ruling passion, be it what it will. The ruling passion conquers reason still.

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.

Fire—without hatred.

Passion makes idiots of the cleverest men, and makes the biggest idiots clever.

true love is felonious… You take someone’s breath away… You rob them of the ability to utter a single word… You steal a heart.

Yes, it's crazy. Love is either crazy or it's nothing at all.

The less my hope, the hotter my love

Love is every bit as violent and dangerous as murder.

I see love, like art, as an obsession. Maybe that's an overly romantic view of human existence, but I'm an overly romantic human being. If love, like rock and roll, doesn't consume me 24-7, it's not love. It can be respect, appreciation, admiration, wonderment, it can be a world of glory and a lifetime of peace, but I can't call it love. Love burns me and confuses me. Love's a light that can't be extinguished.

He looked at her Something Turned cancerous He was in love.

I am burning. If anyone lacks tinder, let him set his rubbish ablaze with my fire.

Like love, destruction can be ecstatic.

Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.

Passion is a rather frightening thing because if you have passion you don't know where it will take you.

I measured love by the extent of my jealousy.

Love can never explain the loved one, my dear. It is the essence of wild unreason.

A real flame of love is a subtle thing. It burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairy lands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds.

Everything gives way before the recurring torment and festivity of passion.