Quotes About Emotions

People who are too sensitive go crazy, remember that

And anyway, never, never apologise the morning after for what your hormones were telling you last night.

A long-simmering resentment against the world can burn off more calories than you might imagine.

Though she's long ago come to her own conclusions – that when you get down to it, it's always fucking that matters, not talking.

We should all be merely animals. As humans, there are miseries nothing can put us out of.

she had this look of calmness, of concentration, the look, I think, of all women who for the first time are with child and find that the world around them has become relatively unimportant.

Is not our capacity to laugh and cry the measure of our humanity?

And you read your emily dickinson, And I my robert frost. And we note our place with bookmarkers That measure what weve lost.

You know you've read a good book when you turn to the last page and feel as little as if you have lost a friend.

Åžtii ca ai citit o carte bun? când întorci ultima pagin? ÅŸi simÅ£i c? parc? ai pierdut un prieten.

Capisci di aver letto un buon libro quando giri l'ultima pagina e ti senti come se avessi perso un amico.

You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as you have lost a friend.

You know you have read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.

You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend." ?

Home is always the impossible subject, multilayered and maddening.

It seemed that his anger was partly theatrical, that he was amping up his shouts to intimidate me.

Before I left the house I put my head into the boys' bedroom. The room was cool but the children seemed to radiate warmth - their glow was in the air - and this warmth from such a small bed I associated with their good hearts. They still smelled soapily of their baths, and I kissed their warm cheeks and whispered good night. What is it in darkness that makes us whisper?

as Henry James had said in a letter to a do-gooding friend, "Only don't, I beseech you, generalize too much in these sympathies and tendernesses—remember that every life is a special problem which is not yours but another's, and content yourself with the terrible algebra of your own.

There is nothing shocking about leaving home, but rather, a slow feeling of gathering sadness as each familiar place flashes by the window and disappears and becomes part of the past.

Sometimes I miss Boston', I said. It was a timid confession. I missed it every day - its space, its familiar streets and smells. I missed the laughter, I missed the feel of American money which was like the feel of flesh. Reality for me was the past, and it was elsewhere. This - London - was like a role I had been assigned to play, and I was still yet unsure of my lines.

was ashamed of Father, who didn't care what anyone thought. And I envied him for being so free, and hated myself for feeling ashamed.

I had felt myself not merely incapable of love . . . but even of guilt.

Teasing, especially the public sort, as well as the joshing in a joking relationship, always contains an element of hostility.

One of my luckiest instincts lay in being able to tell when I was happy—at the time, not afterwards. Most people don't realize until long afterwards that they have passed through a period of happiness. Their enjoyment takes the form of reminiscence, and it is always tinged with regret that they had not known at the time how happy they were. But I knew, and my memory (of bad times too) was detailed and intense.