Paulo Coelho Quotes

Like love, destruction can be ecstatic.

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

You fall into my arms. You are the good gift of destruction's path, When life sickens more than disease. And boldness is the root of beauty. Which draws us together.

Sexual passion is the cause of war and the end of peace, the basis of what is serious... and consequently the concentration of all desire

Love is a universal migraine. A bright stain on the vision, Blotting out reason.

For sometimes you can't help but crave some ruin in what you love.

Passion is like the lightning, it is beautiful, and it links the earth to heaven, but alas it blinds!

Love, having become a god, becomes a demon.

Love is something sent from Heaven to worry the Hell out of you.

Love is every bit as violent and dangerous as murder.

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

Believe it or not--it takes a lot of love to hate you like this.

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

Loves a battlefield it's not a one night stand.

Love is strange, sometimes it makes you crazy, it can burn or break you down.

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Sometimes change came all at once, with a sound like a fire taking hold of dry wood and paper, with a roar that rose around you so you couldn't hear yourself think. And then, when the roar died down, even when the fires were damped, everything was different.

Joscelin, is love supposed to make you feel like you’re sick and dying, and mad enough to hit someone and drunk with joy, and your heart’s a boulder n your chest trying to burst into a thousand pieces all at once?” “Mm-hmm.” He finished his ale. “That would be love.

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

I think I'm losing it—I don't know what's happening, what happened, but I look at you, I look at you, and I love you so much. Not because of anything you've said, or done, or anything at all. I look at you, and I just love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.

Like a fierce wind roaring high up in the bare branches of trees, a wave of passion came over me, aimless but surging . . . I suppose it's lust, but it's awful and holy like thunder and lightning and the wind.

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.