Jim Morrison Quotes

I wanted him. I arched my back, fully aware of how vulnerable that made me and that I was giving him an invitation. He accepted it and laid me back against the table, bringing his body down on top of mine. That crushing kiss of his moved from my mouth to the nape of my neck. He pushed down the edge of my dress and the bra strap underneath, exposing my shoulder and giving his lips more skin to conquer.

Death's got an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry interrupted again. "So he can sneak up on people," said Ron. "Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking.

Nothing to me is so erotic as a hotel room, and therefore so penetrated with life and death.

Fang’s hand gently smoothed my hair off my neck. My breath froze in my chest, and every sense seemed hyperalert. His hand stroked my hair again, so softly, and then trailed across my neck and shoulder and down my back, making me shiver. I looked up. “What the heck are you doing?” “Helping you change your mind,” he whispered, and then he leaned over, tilted my chin up, and kissed me.

Give me a paper and pen, so I can write about my life of sin. A couple of bottles of gin, in case I don't get in.

It felt odd to be laughing during a firefight. Then again, if you can't laugh when you're about to die, when can you?

Well, that's certainly... adequate," I told him, burying my face in his chest. I knew immediately I'd picked the wrong word. "Adequate?" He took my hand, placed it on the part in question. It immediately began to stir. He moved my hand on it, and I obligingly circled it with my fingers. "This is adequate?" "Maybe I should have said it's a gracious plenty?" "A gracious plenty. I like that," he said.

Jesse, this is Craig. Craig, Jesse. You two should get along. Jesse's dead, too.

I have to apologize to you that I am still among the living. There will be a remedy for this, however.

One of the few good things about modern times: If you die horribly on television, you will not have died in vain. You will have entertained us.

What is your name?" Why?" So I can mark your grave.

I've never seen anythin' sexier in my life, and she's not even naked yet.

Oh well... I'd just been thinking, if you had died, you'd have been welcome to share my toilet.

I would like to live in Manchester, England. The transition between Manchester and death would be unnoticeable.

It is depressing to hear the unfortunate or dying man jest.

Death left its old tragic heaven and became the lyrical core of man: his invisible truth, his visible secret.

Death is my lover and he wants to move in.

In the last volume of In Search of Lost Time, Proust compares himself to Scheherazade: he says he has finally understood the nature of the book he has to write, just at the moment when his advancing years and declining health have made him doubt that he's going to live long enough to write it. So he has to write against death like Scheherazade.

[Death is] a gimmick. It's the time-birth-death gimmick. Can't go on much longer, too many people are wising up.

I don't mean to imply that I'm afraid of Death. I'm just not ready to go out on a date with him.

Many people will find this book disrespectful. There is nothing amusing about being dead, they will say. Ah, but there is.

he dared to explore her withered neck w/his fingertips…her hips w/their decaying bones, her thighs with their aging veins.

tiny: did someone die? me: yeah, i did. he smiles again at that. tiny: well, then... welcome to the afterlife.

Women my age just don't turn me on. That's another problem with getting older. I took out an older woman the other night, and I mean old. I told her, Act your age. She died.

Eroticism, it may be said, is assenting to life up to the point of death