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1 " Entwining his hands in her hair, he kissed her with all the passion and love he'd kept hidden in his heart for thirty-sex years. Waiting for her. Only for her. As he felt her kiss him back the frozen wall inside him finally broke, allowing life and sun inside his soul. He pulled away, stroking her cheeks as he looked down into her eyes. " I love you, Carrie," he whispered. " I love you. "
2 " The first inkling of this notion had come to him the Christmas before, at his daughter's place in Vermont. On Christmas Eve, as indifferent evening took hold in the blue squares of the windows, he sat alone in the crepuscular kitchen, imbued with a profound sense of the identity of winter and twilight, of twilight and time, of time and memory, of his childhood and that church which on this night waited to celebrate the second greatest of its feasts. For a moment or an hour as he sat, become one with the blue of the snow and the silence, a congruity of star, cradle, winter, sacrament, self, it was as though he listened to a voice that had long been trying to catch his attention, to tell him, Yes, this was the subject long withheld from him, which he now knew, and must eventually act on.He had managed, though, to avoid it. He only brought it out now to please his editor, at the same time aware that it wasn't what she had in mind at all. But he couldn't do better; he had really only the one subject, if subject was the word for it, this idea of a notion or a holy thing growing clear in the stream of time, being made manifest in unexpected ways to an assortment of people: the revelation itself wasn't important, it could be anything, almost. Beyond that he had only one interest, the seasons, which he could describe endlessly and with all the passion of a country-bred boy grown old in the city. He was beginning to doubt (he said) whether these were sufficient to make any more novels out of, though he knew that writers of genius had made great ones out of less. He supposed really (he didn't say) that he wasn't a novelist at all, but a failed poet, like a failed priest, one who had perceived that in fact he had no vocation, had renounced his vows, and yet had found nothing at all else in the world worth doing when measured by the calling he didn't have, and went on through life fatally attracted to whatever of the sacerdotal he could find or invent in whatever occupation he fell into, plumbing or psychiatry or tending bar. (" Novelty" ) "
3 " To create art with all the passion in one's soul is to live art with all the beauty in one's heart. "
― Aberjhani , Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry
4 " Passion is simply energy, and we all have energy within us which implies you already have all the passion you need within you. "
― Mensah Oteh , The Best Chance: A Guide to discovering your Purpose, reaching your Potential, experiencing Fulfilment and achieving Success in any area of life.
5 " If there is any good in life, in history, in my own past, I invoke it now. I invoke it with all the passion with which I have lived. "
― Elizabeth Kostova , The Historian
6 " Endurance is the crowning quality, And patience all the passion of great hearts. "