Sigmund Freud Quotes

Love is so holy, so confusing. It makes a man anxious, tormented. Love, how can I define it?

I'm not saving lives.

I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

The most violent passions sometimes leave us at rest, but vanity agitates us constantly.

In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.

When I'm carried away, isn't it clear that my heart contradicts my mouth?

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

I came here so that no one else would die. I came here to protect as many people as I could. And I care more about Tobias's safety than anyone else's. So why am I here, if he's here? What's the point?

In order to understand, I destroyed myself.

Sex, like art, can unsettle a soul, can grind a heart in a mortar. Sex, like literature, can sneak the other within one's wall, even if only for a moment, a moment before one immures oneself again.

I am getting nowhere with you and I can't let you go and I cant get through.

There were moments when I hated everybody I came across, innocent or guilty, and looked at them as thieves who were robbing me of my life with impunity. The most unbearable misfortune is when you yourself become unjust, malignant, vile; you realize it, you even reproach yourself - but you just can't help it.

Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights The fairest feelings of the opening heart, Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, And judgment cease to wage unnatural war With passion's unsubduable array.

We're still benefiting from the sacrifices of people long dead, but we're also suffering from their errors.

A people without the memories of heroic suffering and sacrifices are a people without a history.

In war, hunting, and love, men for one pleasure a thousand griefes prove.

I feel myself acting like a lunatic, but I can't stop. It would be like refusing to breathe.

Love can take what shape he pleases; and when once begun his fiery inroad in the soul, how vain the after knowledge which his presence gives! We weep or rave; but still he lives, and lives master and lord, amidst pride and tears and pain.

The passions we cannot control are the ones that define us.

There's such a fierce intense fire burning inside of me, so much that it just wants to explode.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale; Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.

I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .

For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. Although he hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle familiar attitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless desire to renew her picture in his mind - a longing for the very atmosphere she breathed. He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.

Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee, as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness.