The discipline required for athletics carried through to writing.
You call it obsession. I call it discipline. By the way, I see nothing wrong with that.
I am obsessed with ice cubes. Obsessed.
I've been called many names like perfectionist, difficult and obsessive.
I think it takes obsession, takes searching for the details for any artist to be good.
The obsession with performance left no room for the development of the intuitive or spiritual impact of space and form other than the aesthetic of the machine itself.
Sex. In America an obsession. In other parts of the world a fact.
Twitter freaks me out. You have followers? It feels so obsessive and proprietary.
Actually, I love mythology. When I was a kid I was obsessed with myth and I wanted to be a mythologist when I grew up. Then I realized I really just like stories.
In all of our society, but especially in Hollywood, there is an obsession with perfection that can lead to self-loathing and neurosis and all that kind of stuff.
I'm probably not 100 pounds anymore, but around there.
I definitely got obsessed with my weight. When I met my husband and realized that he could put on 50 pounds and I'd still love him, I realized that's how he sees me or at least how he should!
The refusal to rest content, the willingness to risk excess on behalf of one's obsessions, is what distinguishes artists from entertainers, and what makes some artists adventurers on behalf of us all.
You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed with sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafes.
The subject of an outsider who becomes obsessed.
When I started out back in Louisville, there was Harry Collins.
He was my first teacher. He saw that I was so obsessed with magic that he taught me the love of magic.
If any man has drunk a little too deeply from the cup of physical pleasure;
if he has spent too much time at his desk that should have been spent asleep; if his fine spirits have become temporarily dulled; if he finds the air too damp, the minutes too slow, and the atmosphere too heavy to withstand; if he is obsessed by a fixed idea which bars him from any freedom of thought: if he is any of these poor creatures, we say, let him be given a good pint of amber-flavored chocolate... and marvels will be performed.
Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.
To such an extent indeed that one day, finding myself at the deathbed of a woman who had been and still was very dear to me, I caught myself in the act of focusing on her temples and automatically analyzing the succession of appropriately graded colors which death was imposing on her motionless face.
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.
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.