A Quote by Michel de Montaigne

Nothing else but an insatiate thirst of enjoying a greedily desired object. — © Michel de Montaigne
Nothing else but an insatiate thirst of enjoying a greedily desired object.
There is no long interval between the sense of thirst and the trickling of the stream over the parched lip; but ever it is flowing, flowing past us, and the desire is but the opening of the lips to receive the limpid, and life-giving waters. No one ever desired the grace of God, really and truly desired it, but just in proportion as he desired it, he got it; just in proportion as he thirsted, he was satisfied.
All men thirst to confess their crimes more than tired beasts thirst for water; but they naturally object to confessing them while other people, who have also committed the same crimes, sit by and laugh at them.
You will never go wrong in concluding that a man has once loved deeply whatever he hates, and loves it yet; that he once admired and still admires what he scorns, that he once greedily desired what now disgusts him.
Hence, in desiring, the more the enjoyment is delayed, the more fancy begins to weave about the object images of future fruition, and to clothe the desired object with properties calculated to inflame the impulse.
A teetotaller is one who suffers from thirst instead of enjoying it.
From what has been said we can clearly understand the nature of Love and Hate. Love is nothing else but pleasure accompanied by the idea of an external cause: Hate is nothing else but pain accompanied by the idea of an external cause. We further see, that he who loves necessarily endeavors to have, and to keep present to him, the object of his love; while he who hates endeavors to remove and destroy the object of his hatred.
I'm not qualified to do anything else. So there better be another job. I'm kind of stuck now. I'm enjoying my life and I'm enjoying my work, and I'm enjoying the fact that the work I'm doing is garnering some interest and that's great. I just hope that it continues.
Nothing is more maddening than being questioned by the object of one's interest about the object of hers, should that object not be you.
Pleasure is nothing else but the intermission of pain, the enjoying of something I am in great trouble for till I have it.
I wanted nothing else than to make the object as perfect as possible.
All one wants to do is make a small, finished, polished, burnished, beautiful object . . . I mean, that's all one wants to do. One has nothing to say about the world, or society, or morals or politics or anything else. One just wants to get the damn thing done, you know? Kafka had it right when he said that the artist is the man who has nothing to say. It's true. You get the thing done, but you don't actually have anything to communicate, apart from the object itself.
We have nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore- except to make our lives into a work of art.
Every real object must cease to be what it seemed, and none could ever be what the whole soul desired.
To mention a loved object, a person, or a place to someone else is to invest that object with reality.
Yesterday one has wished, to-day one attains the madly longed-for object, and to-morrow one will blush to think that one ever desired it.
No matter the style, the farther one goes the more obstacles increase, and the more distant appears the object it is desired to attain. Again, the most strenuous labor affords the greatest artists but a disquieting gleam which only reveals their inadequacy, while the self-satisfied ignoramus surrounded by the deepest gloom flatters himself that he has nothing more to learn.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!