Quotes About Emotions

She could imagine the demise of the fowl of the air, fish in the sea, mankind itself, but not that the only man she had ever loved would no longer love her. She complained about the weather, she complained about all sorts of things that ordinarily she would not have noticed; she criticized my behavior, and then she criticized herself for criticizing me.

The snow was the color and texture of a half-cooked egg white, making the world seem soft and lovely and - unexpectedly, to me - nourishing. That the world I was in could be soft, lovely, and nourishing was more than I could bear, and so I stood there and wept, for I didn't want to love one more thing in my life, didn't want one more thing that could make my heart break into a million little pieces at my feet.

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't my fault. But nothing could change the fact that where she saw beautiful flowers I saw sorrow and bitterness.

That was the moment he got the idea he possessed me in a certain way, and that was the moment I grew tired of him.

Something settiled inside me, something heavy and hard. It stayed there, and i could not think of one thing to make it go away. I thought, So this must be living, this must be the beginning of the time people later refer to as 'years ago, when I was young'.

That the world I was in could be soft, lovely, and nourishing was more than I could bear, and so I stood there and wept, for I didn't want to love one more thing that could make my heart break into a million little pieces at my feet.

Unhappiness] comes to you. You come into the world screaming. You cry when you're born because your lungs expand. You breathe. I think that's really kind of significant. You come into the world crying, and it's a sign that you're alive.

And my difficulties were these: I found each plant, each new turn in the road, each new turn in the weather, from cold to hot and then back again, each new set of boulders so absorbing, so new, and the newness so absorbing, and I was so in need of an explanation for each thing, that I was often in tears, troubling myself with questions, such as what am I and what is the thing in front of me.

Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.

Sympathy—not here a form of compassion, but rather a kind of attunement to the states of mind of other people—is absolutely central to the world of the passions as Hume describes it. It gives us the vivid, sometimes pleasurable, sometimes painful, sense we always have of ourselves as standing in relation with other people.

Hume was especially interested in how the relation of ownership, or property, insinuates itself into our emotional lives to the point where it is the principal cause of these 'indirect' passions.

What was it that Drask Silver Hand had said to him? Life is pain. Oh, how he lived just then.

But he did not ask, and his uncle did not speak except to say, after a few minutes, "It's time to go home," and all the way home they walked in silence.

Once, too, when he had said hello to some much older girls, one of them cried out in the strange, sticky voice he had heard grown women use, "Ooh, just look at the darlin little boy!" He had felt embarrassed but pleasantly flattered for a moment; then he heard several boys squealing the same words, but insincerely, in fact with a hatred and scorn which appalled him, and he had wished that he could not be seen.

I understand, Catherine," he said. What does he mean that he understands, Catherine wondered. Something I failed to hear, no doubt, she thought, though their words had been so few that she could not imagine what. But she quickly decided not to exasperate him ;by a question; she was sure of his kind intention, and deeply touched by it.

She neither understood him nor believed him but she realized, with puzzlement, that now the man was being nice, though she did not even want him to be nice to her mother, she did not want him to be anything, to anybody, anywhere.

That horrid little man!" "What's wrong with him?" his father asked, not because he didn't know what she would say, but so she would say it.

That's my boy," he said warmly. "Six years old, and he can already read like I couldn't read when I was twice his age." Rufus felt a sudden hollowness in his voice, and all along the bar, and in his own heart. But how does he fight, he thought. You don't brag about smartness if your son is brave. He felt the anguish of shame, but his father did not seem to notice, except that as suddenly as he had lifted him up to the bar, he gently lifted him down again.

He felt that although his father loved their home and loved all of them, he was more lonely than the contentment of this family love could help; that it even increased his loneliness, or made it hard for him not to be lonely.

She'd feel better later on if she'd kept a few of these things to herself, Joel thought. Or would she. I would. But I'm not Poll.

You never live an inch without involvement and hurting people and fucking yourself everlastingly.

When grief and shock surpass endurance there occur phases of exhaustion, of anesthesia in which relatively little is left and one has the illusion of recognizing, and understanding, a good deal.

A man's sympathy extends just so far as his wisdom reaches, and no further; and a man only grows wiser as he grows tenderer and more compassionate. To narrow one's sympathy is to narrow one's heart, and so to darken and embitter one's life.

The doctor may also learn more about the illness from the way the patient tells the story than from the story itself.