Quotes About Emotions

Looking back upon my work today, I think the best I have done grew out of things deeply felt, the worst from a pride in mere talent.

Books leave gestures in the body; a certain way of moving, of turning, a certain closing of the eyes, a way of leaving, hesitations. Books leave certain sounds, a certain pacing; mostly they leave the elusive, which is all the story. They leave much more than the words.

Only half a page left now. Shall I fill it with 'I love you, I love you'-- like father's page of cats on the mat? No. Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

I found it quite easy to carry on a casual conversation it was as if my real feelings were down fathoms deep in my mind and what we said was just a feathery surface spray.

The tea was a comfort - and by that time I more than needed comfort.

It isn't a bit of use my pretending I'm not crying, because I am... Pause to mop up. Better now. Perhaps it would really be rather dull to be married and settled for life. Liar! It would be heaven.

All I really want to write about is what happened just before he left. But if I let myself start with that I might forget some of the things which came first. And every word he said is of deepest value to me.

Your pain and anger will pass, but the guilt would remain with you for always.

it seemed an awful waste that we weren't in love with each other.

The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return - that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness.

I couldn't make it out - why you ever let me, I mean. I understand now. Things like that happen when you're in love with the wrong person. Worse things. Things you never forgive yourself for.

There's nothing more, except that I usually sit down until the flames die down and try to think myself back into the past.

I had found out in that glittering corridor off the ballroom that being with him could be more painful than being away from him.

As she only cries about once a year I really ought to have gone over and comforted her, but I wanted to set it all down here. I begin to see that writers are liable to become callous.

I didn't make any mistake. I know that when he nearly asked me to marry him it was only on impulse It is part if a follow-my-leader game of second-best we have all been playing - Rose with Simon, Simon with me, me with Stephen and Stephen, I suppose, with that detestable Leda Fox-Cotton. It isn't a very good game; the people you play it with are apt to get hurt.

Oh my dear, dear Stephen, how can I ever repay you for such unselfishness? But the happiness you hoped to win for me will never be mine.

Oh I daresay she can't help it - she's one of the women who oughn't be loved too kindly when they are some primitive desire for brutality makes them try to provoke it.

It is part of a follow-my-leader game of second-best we have all been playing . . . it isn't a very good game; the people you play it with are apt to get hurt.

Now, carols are always beautiful, but if you are sad they can make you feel sadder. (There are some people who always find beauty makes them feel sadder, which is a very mysterious thing.)

Is it wrong for me to feel so happy? Perhaps I ought even to feel guilty? No. I didn't make it happen, and it can't hurt anyone but me. Surely I have a right to my joy. For as long as it lasts...

I leaned against the carved banisters and listened to the music and felt quite different from any way I have ever felt before -- softer, very beautiful and as if a great many men were in love with me and I might very easily be in love with them.

Wakings are the worst times - almost before my eyes are open a great weight seems to roll on to my heart.

Perhaps he found beauty saddening – I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty's evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die.

Feeling like what, Cassandra Mortmain? Flat? Depressed? Empty? If so, why, pray? I thought if I made myself write I should find out what is wrong with me, but I haven't, so far. Unless — could I possibly be jealous of Rose? I will pause and search my innermost soul . . . I have searched it for a solid five minutes. And I swear I am not jealous of Rose; [..]