Quotes About Emotions

To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

Each of us is several, is many,is a profusion of selves. So that the self who disdains his surroundings is not the same as the self who suffers or takes joy in them. In the vast colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways. Livro Do Desassossego

The cause of my profound sense of incompatibility with others is, I believe, that most people think with their feelings, whereas I feel with my thoughts. For the ordinary man, to feel is to live, and to think is to know how to live. For me, to think is to live, and to feel is merely food for thought.

Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other's presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define.

I have no philosophy, I have senses . . . If I speak of Nature it's not because I know what it is But because I love it, and for that very reason, Because those who love never know what they love Or why they love, or what love is. To love is eternal innocence, And the only innocence is not to think . .

In me all affections take place on the surface, but sincerely. I've always been an actor, and in earnest. Whenever I've loved, I've pretended to love, pretending it even to myself.

Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.

To possess something is to lose it. To feel something without possessing it is to keep it, because in that way one extracts its essence.

The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

Knowing how easily even the smallest things torture me, I deliberately avoid contact with them. A cloud passing in front of the sun is enough to make me suffer, how then should I not suffer in the darkness of the endlessly overcast sky of my own life?

Those who really suffer don't form groups, don't go around in a gang. Those who suffer suffer alone.

But do my words ring in anyone else's soul? Does anyone hear them besides me?

Autopsychography The poet is a man who feigns And feigns so thoroughly, at last He manages to feign as pain The pain he really feels, And those who read what once he wrote Feel clearly, in the pain they read, Neither of the pains he felt, Only a pain they cannot sense. And thus, around its jolting track There runs, to keep our reason busy, The circling clockwork train of ours That men agree to call a heart.

of having forgotten the colour of loves and the taste of hatreds. We thought we were immortal.

Should you ask me if I'm happy, I'll answer that I'm not.

Every man of action is basically cheerful and optimistic, because those who don't feel are happy. You can spot a man of action by the fact he's never out of sorts.

There were people who loved me, There were people I loved. Today I blushed Because of who I once was. I felt ashamed Of being, here and now, The one who always dreams And never steps out, Ashamed of realizing That I can have no more Than this dream of what I could have been - before. 6 August 1934

I have all the conditions for happiness, save happiness. The conditions are detached from one another.

There are dreamed anguishes that are more real Than the ones life brings us, there are sensations Felt only by imagining Which are more ours than our own life is. There's so often a thing which, not existing, Does exist, exists lingeringly And lingeringly is ours and us…

Each us is more than one person, many people, a proliferation of our one self. That's why the same person who scorns his surroundings is different from the person who is gladdened or made to suffer by them. In the vast colony of our being there are many different kinds of people, all thinking and feeling differently.

Amar es cansarse de estar solo: es, por lo tanto, una cobardía y una traición a nosotros mismos.

Isn't love at least a means of possessing ourselves through our sensations? Isn't it at least a way of dreaming vividly, and therefore more gloriously, the dream that we exist?

The weariness of being loved, of being truly loved! The weariness of being the object of other people's burdensome emotions!

How wearisome to let one's existence become something absolutely dependent on someone else's feelings; to have no option but to feel, to love a little too, whether or not it is reciprocated.