Pleasure (n.) is rush after so fast by most people that they rush right past it.
Pleasure (n.) is that which men often pursued with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.
Pleasure (n.) is selfish: lovers are not selfish toward each other, but in union they are absolutely selfish, constituting one self — and even then the genus triumphs over them both.
Pleasure (n.) and pain, says Socrates rubbing his leg freed from the fetter, are tied together by the gods at their extremities — they do not exist at once, but for irony they have a negative unity.
Pleasure (n.) is what most men pursue in such breathless haste that they hurry past it — like the dwarf in seven-league boots who strode far beyond the princess he was chasing.
Pleasure (n.) lies not in the thing enjoyed but in the accompanying consciousness — not in what one gets, but in having one's own way.
Pleasure (n.) at its most intense consists in holding fast to enjoyment while knowing that the next instant it may vanish.
Pleasure (n.) is in itself a multiplicity, so a life lived for it splits into boundless multiplicity; however refined, the man in pleasure remains immediate, in the moment.