I don't think there's anything like love at first sight. What happens is actually lust at first sight.
Writing is like a 'lust,' or like 'scratching when you itch.' Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I, for one, must get it out.
Throw out the fun-killers that you carry about with yourselves all the time. Three of them are lust, greed, and hatred.
If one wants another only for some self-satisfaction, usually in the form of sensual pleasure, that wrong desire takes the form of lust rather than love.
Love grows. Lust wastes by Enjoyment, and the Reason is, that one springs from an Union of Souls, and the other from an Union of Sense.
I have this lust for the so-called South Seas. I would like to explore every corner of the Pacific. You know the song: 'To everything turn, turn, turn, there is a season.' It's just time.
Four hundred or so people lived in Knockemstiff in 1957, nearly all of them connected by blood through one godforsaken calamity or another, be it lust or necessity or just plain ignorance.