High culture is nothing but a child of that European perversion called history, the obsession we have with going forward, with considering the sequence of generations a relay race in which everyone surpasses his predecessor, only to be surpassed by his successor. Without this relay race called history there would be no European art and what characterizes it: a longing for originality, a longing for change. Robespierre, Napoleon, Beethoven, Stalin, Picasso, they're all runners in the relay race, they all belong to the same stadium.
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I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat.
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Journalism over here is not only an obsession but a drawback that cannot be overrated. Politicians are frightened of the press, and in the same way as bull-fighting has a brutalizing effect upon Spain (of which she is unconscious), headlines of murder, rape, and rubbish, excite and demoralize the American public.
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Nixon had three goals to win by the biggest electoral landslide in history to be remembered as a peacemaker and to be accepted by the 'Establishment' as an equal. He achieved all these objectives at the end of 1972 and the beginning of 1973. And he lost them all two months later-partly because he turned a dream into an obsession.
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The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.
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In America sex is an obsession, in other parts of the world it is a fact.
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The trade of authorship is a violent, and indestructible obsession.
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I sit alone struggling not to cry. Yesterday my life shattered before my eyes. Almost everything I hold dear. The object of my obsession over the course of time. The love of my life. The one I hold above anyone else. For now has been all but lost completely. Shattered I sit alone with only one thing on my mind. If you love something let it go. If it comes back to you it always has been and always will be yours. If it doesn't than it never has been and never will be yours. I have let you go. I pray that one day you will return. Still I sit alone trying to retrieve the pieces of my so-called life. I am crying now. Crying for what I have lost for the moment. Crying for fear that I may never love another quite like I loved you. Crying for fear that I may never find another quite like you. I sit lying in wait for a chance to regain what I have lost. Close I will stay to you. Waiting for your choice to go astray and cause you to fall. I will be waiting right there to catch you. but for now I am the sad shell of a man who once was. I feel as though a part of me has died deep inside. Sitting alone for yesterday my life as I know it was shattered.
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The sin of pride may be a small or a great thing in someone's life, and hurt vanity a passing pinprick, or a self-destroying or ever murderous obsession.
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Our current obsession with creativity is the result of our continued striving for immortality in an era when most people no longer believe in an after-life.
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My mother's obsession with the good scissors always scared me a bit. It implied that somewhere in the house there lurked: the evil scissors.
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I know quite certainly that I myself have no special talent; curiosity, obsession and dogged endurance, combined with self-criticism have brought me to my ideas.
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Cure for an obsession: get another one.
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