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“I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. To-day, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one but lightly and are soon forgotten, but then--how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal. A denial heralded the thrice crowing of a cock, and an insincerity was like the kiss of Judas. The adult mind can lie with untroubled conscience and a gay composure, but in those days even a small deception scoured the tongue, lashing one against the stake itself.”
― Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

“You've got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?”
― Raymond Carver, Cathedral

“Then why was his tongue in your mouth? Was he conducting a clinical test of your gag reflex?" He smiled, but not nicely. "How is your gag reflex, Ms. Lane? Are you a hair trigger?"

Barrons likes to use sexual innuendo to try to shut me up. I think he expects the well-raised southern belle in me will think eew and back off. Sometimes, I do think eew, but I don't back off. "I'm a spitter, if that's what you're asking." I flashed him a too-sweet smile.

"Didn't look that way to me. I think you're a swallower. His tongue was halfway to China and you were still taking it."

"Jealous?”
― Karen Marie Moning, Faefever

“It's best to let her go," he says.
No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.”
― Lauren DeStefano, Fever

“He kissed back, all the pages spread out around us like riddles waiting to be solved. Let them wait. Let my genes unravel, my hinges come loose. If my fate rests in the hands of a madman, let death come and bring its worse. I'll take the ruined craters of laboratories, the dead trees, this city with ashes in the oxygen, if it means freedom. I'd sooner die here than live a hundred years with wires in my veins.”
― Lauren DeStefano, Fever

“You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening
at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.”
― Richard Siken

“I should not have loved my daughter as I did. Not in this world in which nothing lives for long. You children are flies. You are roses. You multiply and die.”
― Lauren DeStefano, Fever

“And then I wonder, does my brother think of me this way? We entered this world together, one after the other, beats in a pulse. But I will be first to leave it. That's what I've been promised. When we were children, did he dare to imagine an empty space beside him where I then stood giggling, blowing soap bubbles through my fingers?

When I die, will he be sorry that he loved me? Sorry that we were twins?

Maybe he already is.”
― Lauren DeStefano, Fever

“I want the fever to grab me forever
and want you
to be my fever.”
― Suman Pokhrel

“If you meet an angel, you will have not peace, but a fever.”
― Stefano Benni, Margherita Dolce Vita

“I couldn't imagine Jericho Barrons as a child, going to school, face freshly scrubbed, hair neatly combed, lunch box in hand.
He'd surely been spawned by some cataclysmic event of nature, to born.”
― Karen Marie Moning, Dreamfever

“Anyone who’s anyone in Dostoevsky’s novels sooner or later develops brain fever.”
― W.F. Meredith

“Sick of body, unable to rise up, vehemently intoxicated without wine . . .

And it is as though she who visits me were filled with modesty,

For she does not pay her visits save under cover of darkness,

I freely offered her my linen and my pillows,

But she refused them, and spent the night in my bones.

My skin is too contracted to contain both my breath and her,

So she relaxes it with all sorts of sickness.

When she leaves me, she washes me

As though we had retired apart for some forbidden action.

It is as though the morning drives her away,

And her lachrymal ducts are flooded in their four channels.

I watch for her time without desire,

Yet with the watchfulness of the eager lover.

And she is ever faithful to her appointed time, but faithfulness is an evil

When it casts thee into grievous sufferings.”
― ´¡±ô-²Ñ³Ü³Ù²¹²Ô²¹²ú²úÄ«

“the strongest man is he who stands most alone”
― Henrik Ibsen, An Enemy of the People

“Only fever and poetry provoke visions.
Only love and memory.”
― Roberto Bolaño, The Romantic Dogs

“beneath the caged flutter of hope
fear blooms in the liver as a spear
where memory burns its fever
across the spoke of my body”
― stephanie roberts, rushes from the river disappointment (Volume 53)

“I kinda like being sick. A very strong fever. It’s the perfect condition. You get to have someone take care of you. You feel cold all day, so you snuggle up in a blanket and shiver and sweat. Warm music. The only thing you can think about is how weak your body is, so you get to forget about the rest of the world for a couple days. And my body can finally know how my brain feels like every day. Nothing matters, except how terrible your pain is. It’s like a meditation. An alignment. Then to top it all off, there’s the hope and assurance you’ll get better soon.”
― Karl Kristian Flores, The Goodbye Song

“He kissed me. I felt feverish and stupid, like a thirsty person with too much water suddenly pouring into their mouth.”
― Sally Rooney, Two Stories

“You missed it when you pay more attention to the damaged car in the mechanic shop than the sick human being in the hospital.”
― Israelmore Ayivor, Leaders' Frontpage: Leadership Insights from 21 Martin Luther King Jr. Thoughts

“The man standing in the booth placing the tickets into her hands for the fun-house loomed largely in front of her with arms comprised of iron muscle. She remembered the gray cataract that covered over one of his eyes and the terrified feeling it gave her. She had been too young to understand the malady. To her; his eye looked as though it belonged to a creature from the sea. A frightening creature composed of reptilian and fish like attributes, which would pull unsuspecting prey underneath the darkest oceans. The smile on his face, with the crooked teeth, the cigar, contrasting with the bald head and unshaven face increased her sense of panic.”
― Jaime Allison Parker, River at the World's Dawn

“I shall never be myself again until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, a sleepless night’s dream, a moment’s delirium; but though I were to become a Trappist, like M. de Ranceâ€�, after having seen her, I will see her.”
― Alexandre Dumas fils, La dame aux camélias

“Austro, do you know why an obscure Tibetan grammar should suddenly become a hot item in the porno stores?â€�

“Mr. Sheen, you know I'm not old enough to go into the porno stores.�

“No, but you're old enough to avoid a direct answer to a straight question.”
― R.A. Lafferty

“How beautiful are these bangles! But if you put them on a man, he will not like it because he has assessed his own worth. One cannot be the ‘thermometer (gauge)â€� as well as the ‘feverâ€�, both cannot be one.”
― Dada Bhagwan

“A ten-year-old Amanda wandering around the sights and sounds of a carnival. Trying to take it all in as such an event was much larger than the backroads of isolated territory from whence she grew up. She could not imagine this many people assembled in one place. It was made more disturbing by the fact none of them seemed familiar. Short for her age, she wandered unnoticed among the crowds and began to feel the first stirrings of fear. The loud talk, the screaming children, the long lines of procession, along with the myriads of odors created a miasma that she wanted to flee. The laughter and the faux expressions of joy on the faces of people, took on the maroon tones of a nightmare. She could imagine underneath the laughter, were horrid screams about to erupt.”
― Jaime Allison Parker, River at the World's Dawn

“Jazz!
A manifesto of survivors!
Insanity is shattered to pieces!
future of colours! red lemons! blue blood vesicle of black oranges!
The only ailment is the fever!
Revolution!
Amok run of the trumpets!
Overflow!
Plate streamed with blood!
A bitten heart!
Lung rupture!
Jazz! Jazz
Immortality of the nerves!"

Snippet from the poem "JAZZ"
by Klaus Kinski - Fever- Diary Of A Leper: Poems”
― Klaus Kinski, Fieber: Tagebuch eines Aussätzigen : ein Bildband mit bisher unbekannten Gedichten und Fotografien

“My blood is the color and consistency of champagne. I have been running a fever for the past seventeen hundred years.”
― Varsha Ravi, The Heartless Divine

“You do know, don't you, Allen, that God is a bookseller? He publishes one book-the text of suffering - over and over again. He disguises it between new boards, in different shapes and sizes, prints on varying papers, in many fonts, adds prefaces and postscripts to deceive the buyer, but it's always the same book.”
― Joyce Carol Oates, The Oxford Book of American Short Stories

“He strolled through the streets unhurriedly, observing the passing crowds. The ranks of faces filed steadily, almost rhythmically, before him, as if their owners were standing on some kind of endless, moving sidewalk. Faces with the great bulging eyes of toads; pinched and wary faces of disillusioned men; round, soft faces of abnormal children; bull necks, fishlike noses, ferret teeth. Half closing his eyes, he imagined that they were really all one face, shifting and changing like the patterns of a kaleidoscope.”
― Roland Topor, The Tenant

“Fact is, there is no greater pain, or burden,
As if tearing people's souls apart,
Than a feverish, frozen, scourged body,
Expelling a suffering that's about to start”
― Ana Claudia Antunes, ACross Tic

“There was a terrible disparity between the speed at which he was moving and the quiet immobility of that line, but he insisted. So as not to go. To stay behind. To overflow, take root in what would stay here. A centipede can, cut into pieces. Each part can walk by itself. Still more, each leg flexes, lying alone on the floor.
There was a screaming sound in each ear, and the difference between the two pitches was so narrow that the vibration was like running his fingernail along the edge of a new dime. In front of his eyes clusters of round spots were being born; they were the little spots that result when a photographic cut in a newspaper is enlarged many times. Lighter agglomerations, darker masses, small regions of uninhabited space here and there. Each spot slowly took on a third dimension. He tried to recoil from the expanding globules of matter. Did he cry out? Could he move?
The thin distance between the two high screams became narrower, they were almost one; now the difference was the edge of a razor blade, poised against the tips of each finger. The fingers were to be sliced longitudinally.”
― Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky