Incurable Romantic Quotes

Lothaire said, “I have a much better plan.” “Why help him?” Thad asked pointedly. “When you don’t help anybody else?” Lothaire exhaled ruefully. “Incurable romantic.

Yeah, because I'm extremely romantic here. You know what is my fear? This postmodern, permissive, pragmatic etiquette towards sex. It's horrible. They claim sex is healthy; it's good for the heart, for blood circulation, it relaxes you. They even go into how kissing is also good because it develops the muscles here – this is horrible, my God! It's no longer that absolute passion. I like this idea of sex as part of love, you know: 'I'm ready to sell my mother into slavery just to fuck you for ever.' There is something nice, transcendent, about it. I remain incurably romantic.

I'm an incurable romantic. The essence of romance is an unshakable conviction that next time will be different.

You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable. -Eponymous Clent

Falling in love was as much about receiving as it was giving, was it? It seemed selfish. It was not, though. It was the opposite. Keeping oneself from being loved was to refuse the ultimate gift. He had thought himself done with romantic love. He had thought himself an incurable cynic. He was not, though. He was only someone whose heart and mind, and very soul, had been battered and bruised. It was still - and always - safe to give since there was a certain deal of control to be exerted over giving. Taking, or allowing oneself to receive, was an altogether more risky business. For receiving meant opening up the heart again. Perhaps to rejection. Or disillusionment. Or pain. Or even heart break. It was all terribly risky. And all terribly necessary. And of course, there was the whole issue of trust...

Life was very sad if there were not - and unbearably so if one's experience with romantic love turned one into an incurable cynic.

Falling in love is like catching an incurable disease. Yeah, maybe that doesn’t sounds so romantic, but it’s true. It’s incurable and it’s contagious as shit. It makes you want to have babies and raise kittens, pet butterfly wings and sleep with your head on somebody else’s chest. Love… man, it fucks with everything you are and everything you want to be. I like it and hate it.

Now I am surely becoming an incurable romantic.

She was a wonder junkie. In her mind, she was a hill tribesman standing slack-jawed before the real Ishtar Gate of ancient Babylon; Dorothy catching her first glimpse of the vaulted spires of the Emerald City of Oz; a small boy from darkest Brooklyn plunked down in the Corridor of Nations of the 1939 World’s Fair, the Trylon and Perisphere beckoning in the distance; she was Pocahontas sailing up the Thames estuary with London spread out before her from horizon to horizon. been voyaging between the stars when the ancestors of humans were still brachiating from branch to branch in the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy. Drumlin, like many others she had known over the years, had called her an incurable romantic; and she found herself wondering again why so many people thought it some embarrassing disability. Her romanticism had been a driving force in her life and a fount of delights. Advocate and practitioner of romance, she was off to see the Wizard.

She discovered that underneath the aspect of the Rumpled Porcupine, a tortured Marxist was at war with an impossible, incurable Romantic - who forgot the candles, who broke the wine glasses, who forgot the ring. Who made love to her with a passion that took her breath away. She had always thought of herself as a somewhat uninteresting, thick-waisted, thick ankled girl. Not bad-looking. Not special. But when she was with Chacko, old limits were pushed back. Horizons expanded. She had never before met a man who spoke of the workd - of what it was, and how it came to be, or what he thought would become of it - in the way in which other men she knew discussed their jobs, their friends or their weekends at the beach. Being with Chacko made Margaret Kochamma feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country, into the vast extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them - as though it lay before thm like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined.

My dear fellow," he continued more soberly, "If you have managed to complicate things by forming a sentimental attachment in less than a week, then I doubt there is anything I can do for you. You, sir, are a romantic, and I suspect your condition is incurable.

...My father muttered something to me, and I responded with a mumbled "What". He shouted, "You heard me," thundered up from his chair, pulled his belt out of its loops, and inflicted a beating that seemed never to end. I curled my arms around my body as he stood over me like a titan and delivered the blows. This was the only incident of its kind in our family. My father was never physically abusive toward my mother or sister and he was never again physically extreme with me. However, this beating and his worsening tendency to rages directed at my mother - which I heard in fright through the thin walls of our home - made me resolve, with icy determination, that only the most formal relationship would exist between my father and me, and for perhaps thirty years, neither he nor I did anything to repair the rift. The rest of my childhood, we hardly spoke; there was little he said to me that was not critical, and there was little I said back that was not terse or mumbled. When I graduated from high school, he offered to buy me a tuxedo. I refused because I had learned from him to reject all aid and assistance; he detested extravagance and pleaded with us not to give him gifts. I felt, through a convoluted logic, that in my refusal, I was being a good son. I wish now that I had let him buy me a tuxedo, that I had let him be a dad. Having cut myself off from him, and by association the rest of the family, I was incurring psychological debts that would come due years later in the guise of romantic misconnections and a wrongheaded quest for solitude. I have heard it said that a complicated childhood can lead to a life in the arts. I tell you this story of my father and me to let you know I am qualified to be a comedian.

Now I am surely becoming an incurable romantic

Moreover, we forget things every day, so in a sense we are constantly dissolving into nothingness.

It’s only when I wasn’t afraid to lose it all that I stood the most to gain.

Crushes are like cravings. Why do we desire what isn’t good for us?

Focus on what you want, but leave the “how” to the powers that be. Otherwise you turn intention into control, and trying to meddle with Mother Nature always messes things up.

For almost five centuries, Holmberg’s Mistake—the supposition that Native Americans lived in an eternal, unhistoried state—held sway in scholarly work, and from there fanned out to high school textbooks, Hollywood movies, newspaper articles, environmental campaigns, romantic adventure books, and silk-screened T-shirts. It existed in many forms and was embraced both by those who hated Indians and those who admired them. Holmberg’s Mistake explained the colonists’ view of most Indians as incurably vicious barbarians; its mirror image was the dreamy stereotype of the Indian as a Noble Savage. Positive or negative, in both images Indians lacked what social scientists call agency—they were not actors in their own right, but passive recipients of whatever windfalls or disasters happenstance put in their way.

All mature adults must accept that they are essentially unknowable--and that they will never know the one they love. Even when we kiss there is distance; it is a distance that cannot be bridged by romantic love and must be respected if a relationship is to succeed. The real metric by which we can gauge the authenticity of love is not how close we want to be, how merged and intermingled, but how far we can stand apart and still be together.

Ah, yes, Teddy," he said. "Teddy was a fortunate man." "Teddy is dead," she reminded him. "Oh, quite so," he said. "But there are doubtless many men, Diana, who would gladly die after four years with you rather than live a century without you." "What utter nonsense," she said crossly. "I, of course," he said, "am not a romantic. I would far prefer to have you and live for a century.

But, as you say, rumours don’t have to be true, and the blind assassin has got hold of the wrong rumour. The dead women really are dead. Not only that, the wolves really are wolves, and the dead women can whistle them up at will. Our two romantic leads are wolf meat before you can say Jack Robinson. You’re certainly an incurable optimist, she says. I’m not incurable. But I like my stories to be true to life, which means there have to be wolves in them. Wolves in one form or another. Why is that so true to life? She turns away from him onto her back, stares up at the ceiling. She’s miffed because her own version has been trumped. All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. All of them? Sure, he says. Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

11 pm: Heart’s pounding, hands shaking. Have these knots in my stomach. But drinking isn’t an option. Maa is sleeping with me. Baba in Lalitaji’s room. And she on the sofa. Want to step into the toilet, take one swig, and then go directly to sleep. How the hell will Maa know? I mean she’s sleeping like a log. No, no, shouldn’t. What if she wakes up? She’s a light sleeper, after all. 11.30 pm: No wine. Or vodka. Terrible, terrible night. When will they go back to Kolkata and let me be? 11.32 pm: Chhi . . .Chhi . . . How selfish am I? My parents, one with a heart condition, spent thousands on flight tickets and landed in Chennai. Why? Because they wanted to spend time with their widowed daughter. And what does the daughter want? To sneak into the toilet and take one good swig of wine. Shame on her! Okay, now I’m being over-dramatic.

My trouble is that my intelligence is materialistic, agnostic, pessimistic and solitary, while my heart is incurably tender, romantic, loving and gregarious.

[T]here is a dangerous re-evaluation and exploitation of the work of Guénon as the inspirer of a "traditionalist" or "spiritualist" reaction to the modern world. They are often nothing other than attempts to manipulate the universal doctrine in order to legitimize certain thinking or power trends that are only interested in the government of this world, and which have no sense of the sacred. These readers of Guénon seem to get lost in fruitless analytic speculation about the crisis of the modern world or about a hypothetical militant revolt against it. So they make the mistake of always looking for evil outside themselves, creating a justification for being better than other people simply because they have read the work of Guénon and because the rest of the world is in chaos. They confuse their contempt for the chaos in the world with their contempt for the world itself, and their contempt for individuality with their contempt for humanity. They forget that humanity and the world are the fruit of God's creation and that, in any phase of a cosmic cycle, the life of every man is necessarily subject to the battle between the forces of good and evil. It is therefore to overcome those illusions of the soul that are a product of that imagination that is so typical of modern man who, not wanting to make the necessary changes to raise himself up spiritually by learning to control his instincts and stifling his own individuality, by a biased interpretation of tradition, tries to drag down the level of the world by disapproving of the decline of modern man in order to congratulate himself on his own supposed superiority. These people, rather than constructively delving into traditional teaching, only drag out arguments from tradition in order to oppose today's aberrations, and inevitably end up being trapped and fall into a form of dualism between good and evil, incapable of understanding the providential nature of the world that will remain like this as long as God allows it to continue to exist to be used for good. The next steps taken by these incurable idealists are usually to build a sand castle or an ivory tower lived in by a group of people romantically banded together by elective affinities or by an unstoppable missionary spirit aimed at forming a traditional society. Both cases are only a parody of the spiritual responsibility of every person on earth who lives in the world with the sincere aspiration to a genuine intellectual elevation, with a balanced awareness of a dimension of the Creation that is both universal and eschatological. On the one hand, we have people trapped like prisoners in a fantasy about the other world who often become theorists about the detachment from this world and, on the other hand, there are the militants of the illusions of this world who create confusion about the reality of the other world. Prisoners and theorists, fantasies, illusions and confusions, are all expressions of how far we are from an authentic traditional and spiritual perspective. But, above all, we must recognize that in some of these poor readers, there is a chronic inability to distinguish and bring together this world and the other world, without confusing them, and therefore cannot really understand the teachings of Shaykh 'Abd al -Wahid Yahya René Guénon and apply them to their lives.

she was, at heart, an incurable romantic.

He was an incurable romantic, though he usually tried to hide it because the world scoffed at romantics, and often punished them.

Her mother always used to say her daughter was an incurable romantic as well as hopelessly competitive, both at the same time.

But I have long said adequately (in Beyond Good and Evil, section 256) where Wagner belongs and who are his closest relatives: the late French romantics, that high-flying and yet rousing manner of artists like Delacroix, like Berlioz, with a characteristic fond 8 of sickness, of incurability—all of them fanatics of expression, virtuosos through and through. Who was the first intelligent adherent of Wagner anywhere? Charles Baudelaire, who was also the first to understand Delacroix—that typical decadent in whom a whole tribe of artists recognized themselves—and perhaps he was also the last. What did I never forgive Wagner? That he condescended to the Germans—that he became reichsdeutsch.

I have, to begin with, an incurably romantic imagination. The practice of throwing a bottle into the sea with an important document inside was one that never failed to thrill me when reading adventure stories as a child. It thrills me still . . .

A very disappointing encounter. It had had strong romantic possibilities. Not that he was much given to romance, it was true.

Well, I think it was a very romantic thing to do, anyway . . . And very brave, too. Not many ladies would have the courage to kill themselves for love. Most would prefer to pine away.

You cannot make a romantic lover of me, my dear. Or a noble character. I want you. In bed, do you understand? And I mean to do everything in my power during the next two weeks to have you there. Nothing else. No romance.

If you can’t entertain yourself, how can you expect others to want to come along for the ride?

The only difference between those who do and those who don’t is just that—doing it.

The odds were seemingly against me. But they idea of starting over—unencumbered—thrilled me.

Oh, the lessons. How mercilessly yet lovingly they come. Heartbreaking, bittersweet, utterly necessary.

All mature adults must accept that they are essentially unknowable—and that they will never know the one they love...The real metric by which we can gauge the authenticity of love is not how close we want to be, how merged and intermingled, but how far we can stand apart and still be together

Consideration of the origins of repetition-compulsion eventually led Freud to infer the existence of the death instinct, a drive that lends support to all forms of self-defeating behaviour and ultimately self-destruction. He justified the notion with recourse to a law of nature: organisms evolve from inanimate matter and must inevitably return to the inanimate state. This common destiny finds correspondences in our thoughts and predispositions. When we engage in selfdefeating behaviours, we are allowing the death instinct to carry us a little closer to oblivion.

While working in a genito-urinary medicine clinic I saw a significant number of young men—some in their teens—who engaged in frequent unprotected sex because they wanted to contract HIV. This was at a time when HIV was almost exclusively associated with homosexuality, the development of AIDS and premature death. For many reasons, mostly social and cultural, HIV had become mixed up with sexual politics and notions of selfhood. These young men wanted to be HIV-positive to strengthen their sense of being gay and acquire status within the wider gay community. Many of them achieved their aim —and subsequently died.

A consultant I once worked for was renowned for his warmth and kindness. (..) A colleague told me, confidentially, that this same consultant was also in charge of a ward located in another hospital where patients were bound in restraints, force-fed and abused by a team of sadistic nurses. (..) Was the kindly consultant for whom I had so much respect an authentic Jekyll and Hyde? I doubt I would have remembered this story—it still sounds to me like an urban legend—were it not for the fact that I had had first-hand experience of equally odd characters and situations in other hospital settings.

All mature adults must accept that they are essentially unknowable--and that they will never know the one they love.

Smrtka vždy odchádza z javiska s potmehúdskym pohľadom - možno naznačuje, že jej tajným darom je obnova.

Charlie had come to believe himself an outsider to love. Not that he was incapable of it, or immune to it. Not at all. He was an incurable romantic, as many inveterate cynics often are. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe love was possible because he absolutely did, but rather that he didn’t believe it was possible for him. So he was doomed to live in a permanent state of quiet unfulfilment. And then he met Stefan.