Quotes About Emotions

My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardly be described.

I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell...it's important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse

Love is a house with many rooms, this room to feed the love, this one to entertain it, this one to clean it, this one to dress it, this one to allow it to rest, and each of these rooms can also just as well be the room for laughing or the room for listening or the room for apologizing or the room for intimate togetherness, and, of course, there are the rooms for the new members of the household.

If literature does one thing, it makes you more empathetic by making you live other lives and feel the pain of others. Ideologues don't feel the pain of others because they haven't imaginatively got under their skins.

That's the nature of grief: It's a creature with many arms but few legs, and it staggers about, searching for support.

You bring joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it wont be for long.

I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its displeasure.

Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating when life is safe and stale, or fleeing it when life is threatened and precious

What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell.

Kalau nyawa kita sendiri terancam, kemampuan kita berempati jadi tumpul oleh hasrat egois yang amat sangat untuk bertahan hidup.

To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches.

It was frightening, the extent to which a full belly made for a good mood.

The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.

My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.

Memory is a glue: it attaches you to everything, even to what you don't like.

I would nearly go into convulsions of dismay at my stupidity.

You bring joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it won't be for long.

Ageing is not easy, Senhora Castro. It's a terrible, incurable pathology. And great love is another pathology.

They were like curmudgeonly old friends who would never admit that they liked me yet came round to see me all the time. The

She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India, India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, of bullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and known shopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of this and that, India so familiar to her and loved by her.

They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love.

If it's going to be a world with no time for sentiment, it's not a world that I want to live in.

Do you think it makes people nasty to be loved? You know it doesn't! Then why should it make them nice to be loathed? While you're being persecuted, you hate what's happening to you, you hate the people who are making it happen; you're in a world of hate. Why, you wouldn't recognize love if you met it! You'd suspect love! You'd think there was something behind it—some motive—some trick.

Why should you love him whom the world hates so? Because he love me more than all the world.