Quotes About Emotions

Ce vreau eu sa stiu - ce ma nedumereste pe mine - este cum pot oamenii care traiesc in aceeasi tara, care vorbesc aceeasi limba, care citesc aceleasi ziare si asa mai departe, sa fie atat de deosebiti, realmente deosebiti, in sentimentele lor. Asta nu pot sa inteleg.

Bolshevism, it seems to me,' said Charlie, 'is just a superlative hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois; and what the bourgeois is, isn't quite defined. It is Capitalism, among other things. Feelings and emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois that you have to invent a man without them.

But he had been so much hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone. There was a blank of insentience.

Every man has made a ghastly fool of himself with a woman at some time or other.

A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying?Why take it to heart?Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted.

But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason.

Her hand lay on the gate-post as she balanced. He put his own over it. His heart beat thickly. But did you - were you ever - did you give him a chance? Chance? - how? To come near you. Iw married him - and I was willing- They both strove to keep their voices steady. I believe he loves you, he said. It looks like it, she replied. He wanted to take his hand away, and could not. She saved him by removing her own.

Because I feel you did something to him - sort of broke him - broke his manliness. What did you do? If I broke his manliness, it must have been a very easy thing to break.

you have never known either real tenderness or real sensuality: and if you do know them, with the same person, it makes a great difference.

That there was any love growing between him and Miriam, neither of them would have acknowledged. He thought he was too sane for such sentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty.

She searched earnestly in herself to see if she wanted Paul Morel. She felt there would be some disgrace in it. Full of twisted feeling, she was afraid she did want him. She stood selfconvicted. Then came an agony of new shame. She shrank within herself in a coil of torture. Did she want Paul Morel, and did he know she wanted him? What a subtle infamy upon her! She felt as if her whole soul coiled into knots of shame.

He would not have it that they were lovers. The intimacy between them had been kept so abstract, such a matter of the soul, all thought and weary struggle into consciousness, that he saw it only as a Platonic friendship. He stoutly denied there was anything else between them. Miriam was silent, or else she very quietly agreed. He was a fool who did not know what was happening to himself.

Their intimacy was so abstract, he did not know he wanted to crush her onto his breast to ease the ache there. He was afraid of her. The fact that he might want her as a man wants a woman had in him been suppressed into shame.

Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came through, with the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence.

There had come into his forehead a knitting of the brows which was becoming habitual with him, particularly when he was with Miriam. She longed to smooth it away, and she was afraid of it. It seemed the stamp of a man who was not her man in Paul Morel.

They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch.

One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedom.

But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason.

Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward and pored over his things. He hated her way of patiently casting him up, as if he were an endless psychological account. When he was with her, he hated her for having

She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of living things.

After all,' he said in a declamatory voice, `one gets all one wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given shape are more important than disorderly emotions. She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. `Yes, I'm sure they are,' she said.

Usually he looked as if he saw things, was full of life, and warm; then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly and was very lovable; and then, when there was any clog in his soul's quick running, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that becomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels himself held cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch of warmth.

Almost with bitterness he watched her go. She had connected him up again, when he had wanted to be alone. She had cost him that bitter privacy of a man who at last wants only to be alone.

Not feeling him so much part of herself, but merely part of her circumstances.