Richelle Mead Quotes

I’m sorry, Eve. I love you. I’m not letting you do this.” She screamed and battered harder. “You love me? You asshole! Let me go!

Contradiction is the heart and soul of character and drama. You're always looking for it. I loved her so much I hit her; that's character. I loved her so much I hit her again; that's even more character.

She hugged me and I could feel the heat rise in my face, either from shame or love, like there was a difference.

You make me miserable. You really do, I want you to know that. Much as I love you, much as I need you, much as I can't exist without you, you make me miserable.

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

My only love sprung from my only hate.

When you loved the one who was killing you, it left you no options." -Bella

Oh, I have loved him too much to feel no hate for him.

There's a thin line baby. A thing line between love and hate." -Cage York

To be in love is not the same as loving. You can be in love with a woman and still hate her.

The way to a man's heart is through his hanky pocket with a breadknife.

Love is jealous, and ingenious in self-torture in proportion as it is pure and intense.

People love to hate. I have a love-hate relationship with the world. The world loves to hate me.

The left side of my brain is telling me I want to sleep with every woman in the world and the other side of my brain is telling me I met this great girl and if I let that go I'm going to regret it.

I loved her. I still love her, though I curse her in my sleep, so nearly one are love and hate, the two most powerful and devasting emotions that control man, nations, life.

To be human and to be adult means constantly to be in the grip of opposing emotions, to have daily to reconcile apparently conflicting tensions. I want this, but need that. I cherish this, but I adore its opposite too.

Sometimes I want to party, sometimes I want to fight and sometimes I want to cry.

As much as I love boxing, I hate it. And as much as I hate it, I love it.

For me, relationships are the real action movies. Bombs are exploding every day and the kitchen is Ground Zero.

If he touched her, he couldn't talk to her, if he loved her he couldn't leave, if he spoke he couldn't listen, if he fought he couldn't win.

Hugh and I have been together for so long that in order to arouse extraordinary passion, we need to engage in physical combat. Once, he hit me on the back of the head with a broken wineglass, and I fell to the floor pretending to be unconscious. That was romantic, or would have been had he rushed to my side rather than stepping over my body to fetch the dustpan.

He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm - like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it yet.

Writing is both the excursion into and the excursion out of one's life. That is the queasy paradox of the artistic life. It is the thing that, like love, removes one both painfully and deliciously from the ordinary shape of existence. It joins another queasy paradox: that life is an amazing, hilarious, blessed gift and that it is also intolerable.

I like fighting, but I hate hurting people.