Quotes About Emotions

La pérdida, cualquier pérdida, es un aperitivo de la muerte. No nos cabe la pérdida en la cabeza, de la misma manera que no nos cabe la idea de nuestro fin. Uno nunca está preparado para perder.

La literatura nos hace formar parte del todo y, en el todo, el dolor individual parece que duele un poco menos.

cuando nosotras creemos enamorarnos de alguien, enseguida enumeramos, como origen de nuestro entusiasmo, un espejismo de virtudes sin fin que le suponemos a esa persona

there is no greater solitude than the solitude experienced when one loves no one

Soporto la vida, pero no creo que nunca más pueda disfrutar en lo que me queda. No tengo un alma alegre ni serena por naturaleza

En su novela El diario de Edith, Patricia Highsmith, esa gran conocedora de los demonios del amor, decía que, en el paroxismo del dolor pasional, los hombres mataban y las mujeres se suicidaban. Pero no, no siempre era así.

Je supportais ma peine comme on traverse un champ de mines : quand je pensais à autre chose, ma vie était normale, presque heureuse. Mais, de temps en temps, quelque chose me rappelait M., c'est-à-dire que je posais sans le vouloir le pied sur une mine et la déflagration me broyait les tripes pendant quelque temps.

Abrazarme a su espalda por la noche y saber que no estaré sola nunca más. Querer y que te quieran, esa cosa tan bonita y tan sencilla que otras personas consiguen, pero yo

pena huele a metal frío, te dirían los perros si pudieran.

La pena es pura y es sagrada.

Parece mentira que el fin de un espejismo amoroso que tal vez sólo ha durado unas semanas pueda sumirte en semejante infierno.

La infancia es el lugar en el que habitas el resto de tu vida.

El dolor a veces te debilita y otras te protege, como un escudo. Pero el dolor es peligroso cuando se asienta dentro de uno, cuando se acomoda y decide quedarse, porque entonces se extiende, como aire contaminado, y no hay viento suficiente que lo limpie.

Pero soy humana y, como tal, contradictoria y llena de inconsecuencias.

All times are beautiful for those who maintain joy within them; but there is no happy or favorable time for those with disconsolate or orphaned souls.

Cando penso que te fuches, Negra sombra que me asombras, Ó pé dos meus cabezales Tornas, facéndome mofa. Cando maxino que es ida, No mesmo sol te me amostras, I eres a estrela que brila, I eres o vento que zoa. Si cantan, es ti que cantas, Si choran, es ti que choras, I es o marmurio do río I es a noite i es a aurora. En todo estás e ti es todo, Pra min i en min mesma moras, Nin me abandonarás nunca, Sombra que sempre me asombras.

She had loved them all, her children. Loved each one the best, but for different reasons.

Oscar and I are very close, and yet I know that part of him is still withdrawn, even from me. As though part of him was still in another place. Another country. Journeying, perhaps. Or in exile. Across the sea. And I can't be with him, because I haven't got the right sort of passport.

Mrs. Plackett did not believe in letting emotion show. Keep yourself to yourself had always been her motto.

I know we didn't have very long together, but what we did have was special. Not many people achieve such happiness, even for a year or two.

It was going to be all right. There were to be no histrionics. For this deliverance Olivia was deeply grateful, but she felt sad too, because it is always sad when someone you have known as a child finally grows up, and you know that they will never be truly young again.

She stared at him, accepting for the first time the fact that personal tragedy is just that. Personal. Your own existence could fall to pieces but that did not mean that the rest of the world necessarily knew about it, or even bothered." ? Rosamunde Pilcher, The Empty House

Yes, she was lovely. But more than that, she was warm and funny and loving. Hot-tempered one moment, and laughing the next. And she could make a home anywhere. She carried a sort of security about with her. I can't think of a single person who didn't love her. I still think about her every day of my life. Sometimes she seems very dead. And other times, I can't believe that she isn't somewhere in the house and that a door won't open and she'll be there.

That is how it was with them. A closeness, a rapport that was almost entire, except for these small niggling uncertainties which, most of the time, she [Janey Ashcroft] was able to ignore, but sometimes, like tonight, grew like balloons to such size and importance that she wondered how she was going to be able to cope with them. ['Anniversary']