Quotes About Emotions

At Christmas homes were full of the people there and the people not there.

I was miserable and making everyone around me miserable.

Billy learned that trees had feelings and personalities of their own.

Invite them back if you'd like," she called after him. "There's plenty." She was four courses upset and considering an amuse-bouche.

Having known many artists in his life, especially through Clara, he'd grown to realize they were often not the most stable, or house-trained, individuals.

And that's when Honoré let loose. One great, long "Fuuuuck!" Even Rosa looked startled, but then ducks often did. "Ahh," said Reine-Marie and looked at the fire, while Armand raised his eyes to the ceiling, suddenly finding the plaster fascinating. Ruth hooted with delight, and Stephen said, "Attaboy, Ray-Ray. You tell 'em.

you don't get to be old without knowing grief. And loss.

This is what comes of trust and friendship, loyalty and love, thought Peter. You get screwed. Betrayed. You get wounded so deeply you ca barely breath and sometimes it kills you. Or worse. It kills the people you love most.

Grief was dagger-shaped and sharp and pointed inward. It was made of fresh loss and old sorrow. Rendered and forged and sometimes polished.

fear was what drove most people to kill. It was what nested below all the other emotions. It was what twisted and turned the other emotions into something sick. It was an alchemist and could turn daylight into night, joy into despair. Fear, once taken root, blocked the sun. And Gamache knew what grew in that darkness. He searched for it every day.

Everyone, he knew, had one. A locked room. Either in their home, or their head, or their heart. Where things that should never see the light of day lived, and waited. For their chance to escape.

Julie wasn't as cheery, not as bright as before she'd joined them. They'd tarnished her.

I'll keep it all inside; festering, rotting; but I'm really a nice person, kind, loving. "Get out of my way, you motherfucker." Oops, sorry …

When people are really depressed, they don't have the energy to kill themselves," said Myrna, who had once been a therapist in Montreal. "But as soon as they start feeling a little better, their energy comes back. They're still depressed, but now they can act.

It was one of life's little mysteries that this woman she had absolutely no respect for, could lay her flat. She thought she'd been ready for it. She'd even dared to harbour a hope that maybe this time would be different. But of course it wasn't.

one day Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood that when people died, they didn't go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind. And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

Gamache in anger. "He knew that's

did. The Burghers of Calais." Armand raised his head and stared up into the eyes of Eustache.

Grief was dagger-shaped and sharp and pointed inward. It was made of fresh loss and old sorrow. Rendered and forged and sometimes polished. Irene

They say time heals. I think that's bullshit, I think time does nothing. It only heals if the person wants it to. I've seen time, in the hands of a sick person, make situations worse. They ruminate and brood and turn a minor event into a catastrophe, given enough time.

He hated it, hated it, when Gamache pushed him like that. Not physically, but pushed him to consider feelings. Beliefs. Emotions. When Gamache insisted that they could possibly be as important as thoughts. As facts.

The mind is its own place, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven,

From deep inside Harriet Landers came every shriek she'd ever swallowed. All the fear, the frustrations, the anger and buried resentments. The wounds, the pain, the losses and humiliations. The times she'd been ignored, marginalized, diminished. Judged and found wanting. The parties not invited to, the boys who'd mocked her. The girls who'd left her out. All her insecurities, loneliness, hurts, and rage from birth to this, her last moment, came rushing out.

He searched her face, his icy-blue eyes keen and cold. She knew she should hold him, should tell him how much she loved him and trusted him and needed him. But something held her back. There it was again. A silence between them. Something else unsaid. Is this how it starts? Clara wondered. Those chasms between couples, filled not with comfort and familiarity, but with too much unsaid, and too much said.