Quotes About Emotions

I had two longings and one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved and I wanted to be always alone

When my first love affair came to an end I wrote this poem: I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know.

Está muy disgustado porque nunca le das un beso. La contradije: —Pues no pone cara de disgustado. —Es un grave error juzgar por la cara, en uno u otro sentido.

When man don't love you, more you try, more he hate you, man like that. If you love them they treat you bad, if you don't love them they after you night and day bothering your soul case out.

This was the affair which had ended quietly and decently, without fuss or scenes or hysteria. When you were nineteen, and it was the first time you had been let down, you did not make scenes. You felt as if your back was broken, as if you would never move again. But you did not make a scene. That started later on, when the same thing had happened five or six times over, and you were supposed to be getting used to it.

Je ne suis pas sûr d'avoir jamais éprouvé ce qu'on appelle le remords, mais si quelque chose s'en approche, c'est bien la pensée d'avoir côtoyé vingt ans ce chagrin sans le reconnaître.

Ton départ était moins cruel que ton retour.

Of course, every new caress would only have taken us closer to the inevitable: break-ups, tears, disillusionment, sadness, anguish, loathing. It wouldn't have made the slightest difference to the mess that human beings make of this world.

What is more humiliating than finding the object of your love unworthy?

We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.

It may be that you are settled in another place it may be that you are happy but the one who took your heart wields final power.

When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.

I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to ask a child about happy, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind. Much easier to let it blow all over you.

In that house, you will find my heart. You must break in, Henri, and get it back for me.' Was she mad? We had been talking figuratively. Her heart was in her body like mine. I tried to explain this to her, but she took my hand and put it against her chest. Feel for yourself.

Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.

You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so how could we take it back without asking?

Unhappiness is selfish, grief is selfish. For whom are the tears?

Growing up is difficult. Strangely, even when we have stopped growing physically, we seem to have to keep on growing emotionally, which involves both expansion and shrinkage, as some parts of us develop and others must be allowed to disappear...Rigidity never works; we end up being the wrong size for our world.

Poor me. There's nothing so sweet as wallowing in it is there? Wallowing is sex for depressives.

When I say 'I will be true to you' I am drawing a quiet space beyond the reach of other desires. No one can legislate love; it cannot be given orders or cajoled into service. Love belongs to itself, deaf to pleading and unmoved by violence. Love is not something you can negotiate. Love is the one thing stronger than desire and the only proper reason to resist temptation.

Where did love begin? What human being looked at another and saw in their face the forests and the sea? Was there a day, exhausted and weary, dragging home food, arms cut and scarred, that you saw yellow flowers and, not knowing what you did, picked them because I love you? In the fossil record of our existence, there is no trace of love. You cannot find it held in the earth's crust, waiting to be discovered. The long bones of our ancestors show nothing of their hearts.

Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to think of you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.

Islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.

No. Take the heart first. Then you don't feel the cold so much. The pain so much. With the heart gone, there's no reason to stay your hand. Your eyes can look on death and not tremble. It's the heart that betrays us, makes us weep, makes us bury our friends when we should be marching ahead. It's the heart that sickens us at night and makes us hate who we are. It's the heart that sings old songs and brings memories of warm days.