Best 180 quotes of Chloe Thurlow on MyQuotes

I love book books, real books, books with spines and heart, dust jackets, books that smell of books. Take the frame from a painting and you have a painting, not art. Take the pages from a book and print them on a screen and you have the ghost of a book. Not a book.

In a mask we are faceless and classless, ageless and anonymous. Masks reveal the primal urge to behave like the beast in rut that leaps on the stranger or waits in the penumbra to be leapt upon.

Innocence isn't something we lose, but realise we don't need.

In our own way, in your own way, we are all of us a masterpiece. Everyone is unique.

In red, you feel naked even when you are dressed.

Inside our mind there is hidden place that contains the mind within the mind. There, you will find another version of yourself that may be your true self. We do not find that self by travelling, by searching. We find that self by sitting still, being quiet and looking inside. Ask yourself: who am I? And your true self will answer.

Is squirting myth or magic? French scientists say myth, squirting girls say magic. And I say: those who can, do, and they do so because squirting is fun.

I started smoking because I thought it was sexy. Now I smoke because I feel sexy when I'm smoking. Is that what they call addiction?

Is this love? The light looks different. Actually the shade looks different. I feel different. Everything is just so different I don't know where to begin...

Italians make you laugh and break your heart.

I thought that love would last forever. But nothing is forever. Life is not forever. The only reliable permanence is change. Love hurts because change is painful. Love hurts because love lost is an assault on our ego. We fear that we will fail again and those who live in fear of failure slowly but inevitably fail.

It is at night when sleep like the outgoing sea leaves you dry and cold and the morning light arrives like a small punishment.

It is important to warm and caress every portion of the curved surface, into the groove and up over the base of the spine. Pause around the open lips of the vagina to see if she is wet and, if so, she is ready for the first strike. Spanking is sexual, sensual, erotic. It has absolutely nothing to do with causing pain. It is about ultimate pleasure.

I told her the clitoris is like a Bonsai tree that needs constant tending and the g-spot is an unexplored island waiting to have a flag pinned on its peak. She laughed and said I should be a poet. Then we went to bed and crossed the sheets as if it were a new continent we had just discovered.

It seems to me the fence separating us from who we are and who we can be is not a straight line, not erect, but something wavering and distant, a reflection of who we are and what we fear.

It's lost time that matters - the time between time - the moments when you forget time and life just happens.

It struck me that my backside was my best asset and that keeping it hidden would be like Oedipus pulling out his eyes so that he couldn't see the errors of the past.

I understood how strangers met and fell into bed, not how they met and fell in love. I wasn't sure what falling in love meant. The very notion seemed so corny, so arbitrary, so fragile.

I was always in love with love and now I am in love. In love, everything looks different. Everything tastes different. It is as if you have been reborn, transformed, become another person whom you don't completely recognise.

I was besieged by a yearning, a craving, a burning desire. My heart had opened like one of those mysterious flowers that only bloom at night.

Life is a long boring drive on an empty road punctuated by special moments that make the journey worth taking.

Life is a maze from which we never escape. Every decision takes us in a different direction and every time we turn one way we could just as easily have turned the other.

Little matters much and much doesn't matter at all.

Love and being in love are not the same. A woman takes the man she loves into her body and absorbs his oils and essence. A part of him enters her and becomes a part of her.

Love and being in love are not the same thing. The woman takes the man she loves into her body and absorbs his oils and essence. A part of him enters her and becomes a part of her.

Love enters us like a vague ailment. Your head spins. Your underarms tingle. Love hurts and love has consequences: marriage, babies, separation, longing, human complications.

Love hurts. First love is excruciating. Like being burned in orange flames and then cast into icy water. Your emotions change from one second to the next. You can't sleep. You never sleep. First love is a form of dying and being reborn.

Love hurts. Love is fragile. Love comes like a breath of magic, then departs leaving us feeling empty, alone, a paper cup blowing on the wind.

Love is a noun as well as a verb, a treacherous construct.

Love is not a spaceship you construct and then fly off together into the stars. Love is a soap bubble that bursts in the air. Love is the first winter snowflake that falls into you palm, a mirage that glows in the sun and fades in the shadows.

Make no mistake: girls love getting head as much as giving head. Giving head is good for your health. Getting head is good for the soul.

Making love requires no thought. You move as the fronds of a palm tree move in the breeze. It is all instinct. All wonder. When you love someone, your lips are incomplete until they are oiled by a kiss. You can say ‘I love you’ a thousand ways but you can say it better with silence and a kiss.

Man was not born to be monogamous. What has changed in the 21st century – at 21 the world surely has come of age – is the understanding that woman is not meant to be monogamous either. Just as love hurts, new love heals.

Masks reveal the shape of your soul and the state of the world and, in today’s world, everyone wears a mask.

Masks reveal. They don’t conceal. Masks reveal your cravings, your passion, your deepest most secret desires.

Melancholia is the disease of the middle-class. The Workers don't know what it means.

Men study women but women watch themselves being watched. We see the image of ourselves that we saw when we left the mirror and entered the room.

Mummy became a shadow, a woman who had lost herself because she had never found herself. She had always done the right thing, and I had a feeling that the right thing is always going to be the wrong thing, that you find yourself by stepping out of yourself.

Naked I felt as if my soul was exposed, my thoughts could be read. In the mask I felt protected. I eased the elastic strap over my head, adjusted the fascia to my cheekbones and glanced again at the mirror. The acid in my tummy had gone. Masked I am me. Masked I can do anything.

Never give up.' This is not sound advice, it is bad advice. You must give up when there is no point in continuing. Then begin a new course. There is no greater failure than not changing course when the time is right to do so.

Nothing is better than sex and nothing is exactly like it.

Once we are aware that our nudity makes us objects of desire, we become naked.

Once you know who you are you can let go of the things you crave and just be yourself.

Our brain is a circuit board with neurons and terminals ready to be wired. We are born free, then programmed to obey our parents, to tell the truth, pass exams, pursue and achieve, love and propagate, age and fade unfulfilled and uncertain what it has all been for. We swallow the operating system with our mother's milk and sleepwalk into the forest of consumer illusion craving shoes, houses, cars, magazines, experiences that endorse our preconceived dreams and opinions. We grow into our parents. We becomes clones, robots, matchstick men thinking and saying the same, feeling the same, behaving the same, appreciating in books and films and art shows those things we already recognize and understand.

People live their lives without ever knowing who they really are.

Photographs shape the past in our own image.

Reading - like masturbation - is something you do alone and very little in life brings more pleasure.

Relationships are nine parts intuition, one part madness.

Sex exists in the now without past or future. If, for a single second, your minds drifts back to the past or forwards into the unknown, the moment withers like a dead plant and the passage of pleasure turns to a road of dust.

Sex is about anticipation not culmination.