So much of the language of love was like that: you devoured someone with your eyes, you drank in the sight of him, you swallowed him whole. Love was substance, broken down and beating through your bloodstream.
I love you. You’re mine. I’ll kill any bastard who tries to take you from me.
Pablo's many stories and reminiscences about Olga and Marie-Thérese and Dora Maar, as well as their continuing presence just offstage in our own life together, gradually made me realize that he had a kind of Bluebeard complex that made him want to cut off the heads of all women he had collected in his private museum. But he didn't cut the heads entirely off. He preferred to have life go on and to have all those women who had shared his life at one moment or another still letting out little peeps and cries of joy or pain and making a few gestures like disjointed dolls, just to prove there was some life left in them, that it hung by a thread, and that he held the other end of the thread. From time to time they would provide a humorous or dramatic or sometimes tragic side to things, and that was all grist to his mill.
You want to be free. You also want to be mine. You can't be both.
If the mind gets frustrated, the body will commit suicide similarly if the possessiveness causes frustration, the love will commit suicide
Love and possessiveness are the divine twins like body and mind, born together, live together and die together
A possessive and a wolf are unfit for love