Quotes About Emotions

Un uomo? -risposi ridendo- Un uomo è cosa ancor più triste e più orrenda di questo mucchio di carne sfatta. Un uomo è orgolgio, crudeltà, tradimento, viltà, violenza. La carne sfatta è tristezza, pudore, paura, rimorso, speranza. Un uomo, un uomo vivo, è poca cosa, in confronto di un mucchio di carne marcia.

Ils sont tous ivres morts dice de Foxâ a bassa voce, stringendomi il braccio. Je commence à avoir peur. Allora io gli dico: Non mostrare di aver paura, per l'amor di Dio! Se si accorgono che hai paura, sono capaci di offendersi. Non sono cattivi: ma quando hanno bevuto, diventano come bambini. Non sono cattivi, lo so, dice de Foxâ son come bambini. Ma io ho paura dei bambini.

If Dad can't come and see me then why can't I go and see him?" he asked. What could I say? "I think he's very busy getting settled in America. I'm sure he'll be in touch soon." But as time passed with no word Julian drew his own conclusions. "Dad's always telling people to love each other," he said to me one day, "but how come he doesn't love me?

When Jeff Greene was in second grade, seven and a half years old, he got home from school one Tuesday afternoon in early March, and found a note from his mother, saying that she had gone away and would not be coming back.

Secrets, he had learned, were the very soil that sorrows grew most easily out of.

I don't know what she told you, but I never was sorry I'd married her or loved her because of you. You always made a difference, made a real difference, from the very beginning. I always knew that, inside me, but I didn't bother to learn how to show you. I'm sorry, Jeff, I should have taken the trouble.

But on this night, for this Volkking's death, when the Death Maiden no longer cried out, and the beating hands had tired, and throats were too raw to howl again, and silence flowed like night out of the low doorway of the Death House, flames erupted --

Dicey had a picture in her head of Sammy putting on a mask every morning, to wear all day long. It was a heavy iron mask, and he pulled it around his own face and bolted it closed.

He had locked her out of his mind and out of his life. She could no longer get through to him, to make him feel the way she used to. He just wanted to forget about her and the way she played on his feelings — the same way she used to play on the guitar, he thought, remembering for a minute. He knew now just how badly she had played the guitar.

There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another... It is when we begin to hurt those whom we love that the guilt with which we are born becomes intolerable, and since all those whom we love intensely and continuously grow part of us, and since we hate ourselves in them, so we torture ourselves and them together.

art is made by the alone for the alone… The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication...

You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.

Yet falling in love is not the same as being able to love.

a traveler, the purer form, someone who collects impressions, dense anatomies of feeling but does not care to record them.

And all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She couldn't quite, quite love in hoplessness. And he, being hopeless, couldn't ever love at all.

The feelings I don't have I don't have. The feelings I don't have, I won't say I have. The felings you say you have, you don't have. The feelings you would like us both to have, we neither of us have.

Isn't love the most horrible thing! I think it's just horrible. it just does one in, and turns one into a sort of howling animal.

Instead of her soul swaying with new life, it seemed to droop, to bleed, as if it were wounded.

But then he didn't want to remember, because she had been nothing to him then, and his nature revolted from remembering her as she was when she was nothing to him.

That's it! When you come to know men, that's how they are: too sensitive in the wrong place.

Those that go searching for love only make manifest their own lovelessness, and the loveless never find love, only the loving find love, and they never have to seek for it.

When the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only in appearance. Slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.

My God, these folks don't know how to love -- that's why they love so easily.