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Thrill Quotes

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Thrill Quotes

“Only when your whole attention and desire are fixed on something else—whether a distant mountain, or the past, or the gods of Asgard—does the “thrill” arise. It is a by-product. Its very existence presupposes that you desire not it but something other and outer. If by any perverse askesis or the use of any drug it could be produced from within, it would at once be seen to be of no value. For take away the object, and what, after all, would be left?—a whirl of images, a fluttering sensation in the diaphragm, a momentary abstraction. And who could want that? This, I say, is the first and deadly error, which appears on every level of life and is equally deadly on all, turning religion into a self-caressing luxury and love into autoeroticism.”

“...perhaps, also this short embrace may infuse in their veins a little of this thrill which they would not have known without it, and will give to those two dead souls, brought to life in a second, the rapid and divine sensation of this intoxication, of this madness which gives to lovers more happiness in an instant than other men can gather during a whole lifetime.”

“Trekking means a travelling experience with a thrilling excitement.”

“One of the best kinds of thrill is defining, honoring, and achieving our goals.”

“As you navigate your journey, you will encounter mountains and valleys, and you will have to make some decisions: will you complain about the steepness of the mountain, or will you appreciate the thrill of the summit? Will you weep over the shadows in the valley, or will you beam at the beauty of the bloom in its authenticity?”

“The TSA liked having fresh agents on the job. Fresh agents with a clear mind and steady hand. Time travel wasn’t for the faint of heart. The pay was good though, but as Scrooby had decided long ago, that even if he didn’t get paid for it, the thrill alone was payment enough. Then again, the TSA realized they couldn’t afford to have disgruntled employees with too much time on their hands and the power of the gods at their fingertips, so the pay was very, very good. Debriefing was routine. And how he hated routine! His supervisor was a senior agent called Guy Krummeck, a rather drab character who liked his shiny silver suits almost as much as he liked to go over every little detail at least three times. Minimum. This time everything went right, so it went quick. Twenty minutes later, tired, he clocked out and went home to his small apartment. Tomorrow, after all, was another day again.”

“He looked around at that one room, and the few things in it. He'd always thought retiring would be going back to his life after some nightmare pause. Some stretch of exile in the land of the dead. Now it came to him that all his life worth living had happened while he was holding a sword. Standing alongside his dozen. Laughing with Whirrun, and Brack, and Wonderful. Clasping hands with his crew before the fight, knowing he'd die for them and they for him. The trust, the brotherhood, the love, the knit closer than family. Standing by Threetrees on the walls of Uffrith, roaring their defiance at Bethod's great army. The day he charged at the Cunmur. And at Dunbrec. And in the High Places, even though they lost. The day he earned his name. Even the day he got his brothers killed. Even when he'd stood at the top of the Heroes as the rain came down, watching the Union come, knowing every dragged out moment might be the last. Like Whirrun said - you can't live more than that. Certainly not by fixing a chair.”

“People who fell in love at first sight, rushed home to their parents to tell them the good news and subsequently married were, [Patricia Highsmith] thought, retarded. Rather, a more honest appraisal of the nature of love positions it nearer to the horrors of mental illness. How else could you explain the fact that so many people were prepared to sacrifice the safety and cosiness of their lives for the thrill of a new romance?”

“The ticket in my hand moved in the slight fall breeze as I staggered back onto my rock. My body shivered. I should have been shocked by the paper in my hand. I should have called Professor Golkov and asked him for answers or more information. I should have just gone back to my dorm and ignored the unfamiliar feeling rising through me. I should have done a lot of things, but I always did what I should. When the foreign feeling spread through me and filled my being, I finally realized what it was. Thrill. I felt like I held the answer to my life’s puzzle in my hands.”

“Still, hell or no hell, it was satisfactory, it was even exciting in those early days to know that one was doing something bad and wrong. But there is in debauchery something so intrinsically dull, something so absolutely and hopelessly dismal, that it is only the rarest beings, gifted with much less than the usual amount of intelligence and much more than the usual intensity of appetite, who can go on actively enjoying a regular course of vice or continue actively to believe in its wickedness. Most habitual debauchees are debauchees not because they enjoy debauchery, but because they are uncomfortable when deprived of it. Habit converts luxurious enjoyments into dull and daily necessities. The man who has formed a habit of women or gin, of opium-smoking or flagellation, finds it as difficult to live without his vice as to live without bread and water, even though the actual practice of the vice may have become in itself as unexciting as eating a crust or drinking a glass from the kitchen tap. Habit is as fatal to a sense of wrong-doing as to active enjoyment. After a few years the converted or sceptical Jew, the Westernized Hindu, can eat their pork and beef with an equanimity which to their still-believing brothers seems brutally cynical. It is the same with the habitual debauchee. Actions which at first seemed thrilling in their intrinsic wickedness become after a certain number of repetitions morally neutral. A little disgusting, perhaps; for the practice of most vices is followed by depressing physiological reactions; but no longer wicked, because so ordinary. It is difficult for a routine to seem wicked.”

“Each of us has our definition of adventure: ending an unsatisfying relationship, returning to school, parachute jumping or training for a marathon. Go ahead. Get your thrill on.”

“Desperately, I needed a reversal of fortunes. Then suddenly, I knew what I needed to do. So, I stopped at the Northside cemetery. Mom was buried there. I gave Deya another pass and left her outside the gates of the cemetery. I wasn’t certain but I didn’t want to mix my perceived notion of Deya’s Voodoo with Mom’s Ghosts, Dead Dawg, and Haints. Too many demons in the same location didn’t appear to be a smart thing. Once inside,I said what I needed to say, laid a rose, and headed back to retrieve my sweetheart. But I knew Deya. She had a fear of ghouls and hitchhikers hanging out in the graveyard. So wisely, I scanned her person for a Greek cross, miniature doll, or chicken foot in her possession. Fortunately, she passed my inspections. So, I left the graveyard, took the wheel, and got the hell out of that area in a haze.”

“It wasn't about opening her mind, it was about closing down the racket of thoughts and opening up her body. She was tingling and throbbing and hot, not so much from her desire specifically for rick, as from a very physical yearning for human touch, to be wanted and ravished by another person after such a long period without. His attention, his hunger, was the thrill; it was an ego massage which in itself was better than her breasts being fondled.”

“In every species of fish I've angled for, it is the ones that have got away that thrill me the most, the ones that keep fresh in my memory. So I say it is good to lose fish. If we didn't, much of the thrill of angling would be gone.”