Quotes About Emotions

One writes not to be read but to breathe...one writes to think, to pray, to analyze. One writes to clear one's mind, to dissipate one's fears, to face one's doubts, to look at one's mistakes--in order to retrieve them. One writes to capture and crystallize one's joy, but also to disperse one's gloom. Like prayer--you go to it in sorrow more than joy, for help, a road back to 'grace'.

Which all goes to show that it is hard to hide how you feel, when mirrors are out there everywhere, just waiting to pounce.

We all try to forget what hurts us, it is sometimes the only way we can continue.

but old wounds don't stop aching. They are always under the surface, ready to remind one of the original injuries.

I know this kind of person. I've known them all my life. They get the sympathy of others with what passes for insecurity. But what really motivates them is a vanity so immense most of us can not conceive of it. Insecurity is simply a disguise.

You know, one thing I learned about actors and actresses - I mean the big stars. They can be the most ignorant people if they get caught up in it very young. Some of them are damn near illiterate. And emotionally they're like people who have grown up in the penal system. I mean, they cannot control their emotions at all.

I have this theory that actually, after an absence you discover in that first glimpse what you really think and feel about another person. You know things you couldn't know before.

I have this theory actually, that after an absence you discover in that first glimpse what you really think and feel about another person. You know things you couldn't know before

At four that morning my son, Peter Williams Chambliss, slid into the world tiny and red and roaring with life and the awful love that caught and whirled me away when they laid him on my stomach was as strong and old as the earth and would, I knew dimly, abide as long.

Walter Parmenter sometimes seemed to his daughter a restless subterranean force held together by rituals.

Even the arch-British diplomat Harold Nicolson joined in, insisting it was not that the Europeans 'were anti-American, just that they were frightened that the destinies of the world should be in the hands of a giant with the limbs of an undergraduate, the emotions of a spinster and the brain of a pea hen'.

Leaving the page of the book carelessly open,something unsaid, the phone off the hookand the love, whatever it was, an infection.

Meanwhile in my head, I'm undergoing open-heart surgery.

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

And I. I too. Quite collected at cocktail parties, meanwhile in my head I'm undergoing open-heart surgery.

How are you? How is your wonderful bathroom? How are the books you read and the things you think? Your dogs and their lives? The weather? Your feelings?

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year's cupful and downward into a decade's quart and downward into a lifetime's ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman's float.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

madness is not hysteria. It can be very quiet…

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

He said loudly 'I am not dying' and I said 'for me you are.

I am mad the way young girls are mad, with an offering, an offering.

I am ugly, submerged in my own past and my own madness

I feel myself beginning to love you instead of just need you. I don't think I have ever loved anyone in my life, not really – just needed them, wanted them to love me to possess me – to become such a part of someone I could lose my frightened self…