Arthur Rubinstein Quotes

There is no art without Eros.

Love cannot express the idea of music, while music may give an idea of love.

The greatest music is made for love, not for money.

You can't make love without art.

We efface an hour by passionate love, without twists, without aftertaste. When it is finished, it is not finished, we lie still in each other's arms lulled by our love, by tenderness -- sensuality in which the whole being can participate.

Don't stint on foreplay - or afterplay. Be inventive!

Come sleep with me: We won't make Love,Love will make us.

Music is like making love: either all or nothing.

I love to dance and perform the Argentine tango - it breathes love!

Kissing - and I mean like, yummy, smacking kissing - is the most delicious, most beautiful and passionate thing that two people can do, bar none. Better than sex, hands down.

I don't think when I make love.

I want to kiss her without counting the seconds. I want to hold her so long that I get to know her skin. I want, I want, I want.

Eroticism cannot be entirely revealed without poetry.

He doesn't have to say it, i feel it too; it's not subtle - like every bell for miles and miles is ringing at once, loud and clanging, hungry ones and tiny, happy, chiming ones, all of them sounding off in this moment. I put my hands around his neck, pull him to me, and then he's kissing me hard and so deep, and i am flying, sailing, soaring.

I could not make a move without making love.

To speak of love is to make love.

Love is the art of hearts, and heart or arts.

When you make love, you must be making love.

When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it is because they are searching, feeling for one another's lips. Lovers are made by a kiss.

L'amour n'est pas seulement un sentiment, il est un art aussi. Love is not only a feeling; it is also an art.

We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

It's the right time of the night for making love.

I don't want you to cook my bread, I don't want you to make my bed. I don't want you to because I'm sad and blue, I just want to make love to you.

I think of making love and making art as being very parallel. Even the most amateur attempt can be thrilling.

And now, as I'm lying alone in my own bed, I keep thinking about writhing against him last night, naked and vulnerable. Even after we'd both risen and fallen, peaked and plummeted, even after Marcus was physically shrinking from inside me, I couldn't stop clutching, crying, trying. Trying to pull him deeper, deeper, deeper within. Trying to make him more a part of me than I am myself.