Quotes About Emotions

Why does life hurt so much, Cai?' Gwenhwyfar asked despairingly. 'It always hurts for those who feel deeply,' he replied. 'It is the price we must pay.' 'It would be nice sometimes not to care.' 'Easier, certainly. But would it really be worth it?

The clear-cuts soured all of us

The jabs Sheila launched in my direction never failed to score a direct hit to my soft belly. I

Old hurts run deep. They hide inside you, only to be awakened at a moment's notice.

Sagittarians rarely talk about their feelings—they talk about what they think about their feelings.

Watch: (1) You do something nasty to me. (2) I hate you. (3) You find it uncomfortable to be hated. (4) You think how nice it would be if I didn't hate you. (5) You decide I ought not to hate you because hate is bad. (6) Good people don't hate. (7) Because I hate you I am a bad person. (8) It is not what you did to me that makes me hate you, it is my own bad nature. I—not you—am the cause of my hating you.

Scholars don't usually sit gasping and sobbing in corners of the library stacks. But they should. They should.

She trusted her instincts; she trusted those dear to her; she trusted her emotions and her passions. She drank deep, you could see that; she squeezed every drop of living out of all the elements that mattered to her. It made her careless sometimes, of course it did, but it was a wonderfully rich and rapt way to be.

Or was she going to be sensible, reliable, patient Elinor who never put her own feelings first because -- let's face it -- she didn't have any worth considering in the first place, did she?

We all overlay our feelings with too much thinking. We are afraid of our feelings because they are arbitrary and volatile, and we often need literature to make our feelings intelligible to us, to make us see that our reaction to what we can't choose and what we can is what shapes our lives.

I feel at the moment I can't complete, that I've become smug and pissy and I Haven't a sense of Humor.

You can't be nervous and amused at the same time. They're both powerful emotions and one overrides the other. If your sense of humor kicks in, you lose your case of nerves…at least according to the professor who taught the psychology class I took in college.

Unless he has his own selfish interests at heart. He wants you to get so mad at Norman that you'll fall into his arms on the rebound. Either that, or . . ." Andrea faltered and Hannah stepped in with a possible explanation. "Either that or Mike has the IQ of a small kitchen appliance.

To be closed from everything, and yet to feel, to think...This is the truth of hell, stripped of its gaudy medievalisms. This loss of contact.

I don't pretend to know much about love, but that's how great love comes to an end, not in the flames of passion, but in the silence of regret.

Somehow the anticipation of pain can be even more troubling, more a misery than the pain itself.

All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.

To be a mother is to live in fear. Fear of death, of sickness, of loss, of accidents, of strangers, of the Black Man, or simply those small everyday things that somehow manage to hurt us most: the look of impatience, the angry word, the missed bedtime story, the forgotten kiss, the terrible moment when a mother ceases to be the center of her daughter's world and becomes

Most adults assume that the feelings of adolescence don't count, somehow, and that those searing passions of rage and hate and embarrassment and horror and hopeless, abject love are something your grow out of, something hormonal, a practice run for the Real Thing. It wasn't. At 13 *everything* counts; there are sharp edges on everything, and all of them cut.

Felicità. Semplice come un bicchiere di cioccolata o tortuosa come il cuore. Amara. Dolce. Viva.

LaimÄ—. Paprasta kaip stiklinÄ— Å¡okolado, arba kankinanti kaip Å¡irdis. Karti. Saldi. Gyva.

Non permettete a nessuno di dirvi che la vendetta non è dolce: lo è. Lo so.

People are reserved, pretending indifference though inwardly they burn with curiosity.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive p184