Quotes About Emotions

Once, we all lived in the sea," the grandmother had told her. "Its salt runs in our blood; our tears are memories of the ocean.

nasceu-me o amor sem que eu reparasse nele.

Escapei ao agregado, escapei a minha mãe não indo ao quarto dela, mas não escapei a mim mesmo. Corri ao meu quarto, e entrei atrás de mim. Eu falava-me, eu perseguia-me, eu atirava-me à cama, e rolava comigo, e chorava, e abafava os soluços com a ponta do lençol.

Three women were missing; one of them, another old friend. It appeared that death haunted her like a bloodhound. First, Ryan. Now, Becky. Although they weren't the same degree of friendship with her, they were threads woven into the fabric of her life. Without them, the material snagged, weakening her structure and threatening to unravel her life

I'm not myself, she offered, guiltily. She softened around Tik Tok, and when she did she was, for those rare moments, girlish. He smiled. You can never say that. You're just a piece of yourself right now that you don't like.

To love someone was not what she had expected. It was like falling from somewhere high up and breaking in half, and only one person having the secret to the puzzle of putting her back together.

And I never expected that you could have a broken heart and love with it too, so much that it doesn't seem broken at all.

There was no twinkle in his eyes. Maybe I just love some of you. Maybe not enough. Tiger Lily blinked at him, and she didn't understand how anyone could only love a part. Her greedy heart didn't work that way.

A faerie heart is different from a human heart. Human hearts are elastic. They have room for all sorts of passions, and they can break and heal and love again and again. Faerie hearts are evolutionarily less sophisticated. They are small and hard, like tiny grains of sand. Our hearts are too small to love more than one person in a lifetime.

I could have been stronger," she said. "I wasn't enough to keep something so important.

As you may have guessed already, Peter had a soul that was always telling itself lies. When he was frightened, his soul told itself, I'm not frightened. And when something mattered that he couldn't control, Peter's soul told itself, it doesn't matter. So while I trained my ears and tired to listen hard to him, I couldn't always make out where he was, or what he felt. And so each time he let Wendy come a little closer, I didn't see what it meant, or how it would end.

The weapons an author has at her disposal are flawed. There are words that feel shapeless and overused. Love, for example. I could write the word love a thousand times and it would mean a thousand different things to different readers. What is the point of trying to put down on paper emotions that are too complex, too huge, too overwhelming to be confined by an alphabet? Love isn't the only word that fails. Hate does, too.

After a certain point, a heart with so many stress fractures can never be anything but broken.

Until this moment, I had not realized that someone could break your heart twice, along the very same fault lines.

I always hated when my scars started to fade, because as long as I could still see them, I knew why I was hurting.

I learn from my own daughter that you don't have to be awake to cry.

I don't think we get a choice in who we fall for, Ian whispers. I think we just do.

People always say that, when you love someone, nothing in the world matters. But that's not true, is it? You know, and I know, that when you love someone, everything in the world matters a little bit more.

words are like nets - we hope they'll cover what we mean, but we know they can't possibly hold that much joy, or grief, or wonder.

How could he convey to someone who'd never even met her the way she always smelled like rain, or how his stomach knotted up every time he saw her shake loose her hair from its braid? How could he describe how it felt when she finished his sentences, turnec the mug they were sharing so that her mouth landed where his had been? How did he explain the way they could be in a locker room, or underwater, or in the piney woods of Maine, bus as long as Em was with him, he was at home?

Normal, in our house, is like a blanket too short for a bed--sometimes it covers you just fine, and other times it leaves you cold and shaking; and worst of all, you never know which of the two it's going to be.

Three months ago, if you asked me, I would have told you that if you really loved someone, you'd let them go. But now I look at you, and I dreamed about Maggie, and I see that I've been wrong. If you really love someone, Allie, I think you have to take them back.

What was the point of being able to forgive, when deep down, you both had to admit you'd never forget?

But will you miss me? More importantly - will I miss you? Does either one of us really want to hear the answer to that question?