Quotes About Emotions

If you just enjoy things, refusing to let yourself be attached to them, that is, refusing to hold the false belief that you will not be happy without them, you are spared all the struggle and emotional strain of protecting them and guarding them for yourself.

Now you will realize that this beggar came to your home with an alms for you—the widening of your heart in compassion and the release of your spirit in freedom. Where before you used to be controlled (these persons had the power to create negative emotions in you and you went out of your way to avoid them) now you have the gift of freedom to avoid no one, to go anywhere.

What makes you happy or unhappy is not the world and the people around you, but the thinking in your head.

You are never in love with anyone. You're only in love with your prejudiced and hopeful idea of that person.

In the past, regretting past mistakes, feeling guilty about past sins, gloating over past achievements, resenting past injuries caused them by other people.

Segunda verdad: si te limitas a disfrutar las cosas, negándote a quedar apegado a ellas, es decir, negándote a creer que no podrás ser feliz sin ellas, te ahorrarás toda la lucha y toda la tensión emocional que supone el protegerlas y conservarlas.

Lo que te hace feliz o desdichado no es el mundo ni las personas que te rodean, sino los pensamientos que albergas en tu mente.

I've been getting into Nick Drake lately, the folk singer. Sad, gorgeous stuff.

To say a person is a happy person or an unhappy person is ridiculous. We are a thousand different kinds of people every hour.

A shell screams over the house. He thinks: I only want to sit here with her for a thousand hours.

And yet she can tell he is visited by fears so immense, so multiple, that she can almost feel the terror pulsing inside him. As though some beast breathes all the time at the windowpanes of his mind.

Is she happy? For portions of every day, she is happy.

Don't tell me how to grieve. Don't tell me ghosts fade away eventually, like they do in movies, waving goodbye with see-through hands. Lots of things fade away but ghosts like these don't, heartbreak like these doesn't.

Nothing will be healed in this kitchen. Some griefs can never be put right ... She only wants a tide of normality to wash in and cover everything again.

All my life, he thinks, my best companions cannot speak the same language as me.

She reaches for his hand, sets something in his palm, and squeezes his hand into a fist. "Goodbye, Werner." "Goodbye, Marie-Laure.

He blinks; he has to swallow back tears. The parlor looks the same as it always has: two cribs beneath two Latin crosses, dust floating in the open mouth of the stove, a dozen layers of paint peeling off the baseboards. A needlepoint of Frau Elena's snowy Alsatian village above the sink. Yet now there is music. As if, inside Werner's head, an infinitesimal orchestra has stirred to life.

Knock him on the head with the umbrella stand? Jab him with the paring knife? Scream. Die. Papa.

You lose sleep, you lose your appetite, but eventually you fall asleep and eventually you eat - you may hate yourself for it, but the body's demands are incontrovertible. He had always felt guilty about that, that he went on living, eating tomato sandwiches, going to Iditarod Days with his father, making snowballs, when his mother could not.

his heart laced with regret.

split by the knobs of her vertebrae. She used to fall asleep holding his index finger in her fist. She used to sprawl with her books beneath the key pound bench and move her hands like spiders across the pages. "Am I to stay here?" "With Madame. And Etienne." He hands her a towel and helps her climb onto the tile and waits outside

Does she grieve over his absence? Or has she calcified her feelings, protected herself, as he is learning to do?

Mostly he misses Jutta: her loyalty, her obstinacy, the way she always seems to recognize what is right. Though in Werner's weaker moments, he resents those same qualities in his sister. Perhaps she's the impurity in him, the static in his signal that the bullies can sense.

Nothing will be healed in this kitchen. Some griefs can never be put right.