Quotes About Emotions

Like Nana was fond of saying, you might not remember what someone said, but you'll always remember how it made you feel.

The best book, like the best speech, will do it all - make us laugh, think, cry and cheer - preferably in that order.

Then I remembered that I had yet to learn, if I ever was to learn, how strongly people in love could feel. In any event, I was the last person in the world to judge anyone as foolishly impulsive, for this was my own greatest fault.

Sometimes, I think, you can look at a person and know they are full of words. Maybe the words are withheld due to pain or privacy, or maybe subterfuge. Maybe there are knife-edged words waiting to draw blood.

The concerto's beauty was even more impassioned than he remembered, and also more piteous and quiet and restrained, and he clasped his hands together to absorb both the grief and joy in his body.

The young man murmured in his sleep and said, "Dear Sparrow," and Sparrow felt, for the first time, how the purest joy could be a heaviness.

I felt she saw into me, past every facade and flourish, and that the more she knew me, the more she loved me. I was too young, then, to know how lasting this kind of love is, how rarely it comes in one's life, how difficult it is to accept oneself, let alone another.

What shook Ling the most was that she wasn't even angry. Anger, too, could dissipate, but this emptiness that took its place might never be released.

She says that she held on to the memory as if it were a touchstone, something that could anchor her. She knows, has always believed, that there is a secret that has coloured her life, her childhood. In the last few months, she has felt as if, day by day, she is losing her footing. There are fissures, openings, that she no longer knows how to cover over.

How did Yiwen see her? Was she a sister, a friend, a confidant, something else? Here is the one thing in my life, Ai-Ming thought, that has no parameters. She wanted to tell Yiwen how she felt, but she was afraid to damage everything they had.

He kisses her, and she knows, somehow, that he is asking for help, for an end to the sadness they are causing one another. Asking because, after all these years together, it is the only thing that might save them.

It embarassed her ow, the way she bruned candles so unthikingly, gazing at words that seemed to hide ideas, or ideas inexpressible in words, how the sentences had carried her forwards like a river or a piece of music. And yet how close the truth had seemed back then. She had been twenty-four years old and she had fallen in love.

Sometimes, I think, you can look at a person and know they are full of words. Maybe the words are withheld due to pain or privacy, or maybe subterfuge.

Was this what music was, was it time itself containing fractions of seconds, minutes, hours, and all the ages, all the generations?

I never hated you. My anger was never with you, but with the little hell my heart had put me in. The anger always passed. I never regretted loving you. If I had gone to my grave never kissing you or touching you, I still would not have thought it a wasted love.

So, I am Mr. Hampton again. It seems that I am only Julian when you forget yourself." "I...that is..." "We have known each other more than half our lives, Pen." She had not even noticed what she called him. "I do not want you to call me Mr. Hampton in private conversation ever again.

Hate hurts the hater more'n the hated.

All of us have days when all our emotional resources are at our disposal and days when we feel depleted; we are all people in addition to being parents. Perfect is not something parents are, nor something they should strive to be. Striving for perfection is bound to end in disappointment and often in depression. We do, however, want to be the best parent we can be and we don't want to have our histories necessarily dictate our parenting skills or choices.

It is when a parent's love is experienced as conditional on achievement that children are at risk for serious emotional problems.

Empathy is the accurate understanding of another person's internal experience. It has nothing to do with agreeing or disagreeing with that experience. Unlike sympathy, it makes no assumptions about how the other person is feeling.

We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.

This, I say. This and this. The way his hair looked in summer sun. His face when he ran. His eyes, solemn as an owl at lessons. This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward.

That is one thing gods and mortals share. When we are young, we think ourselves the first to have each feeling in the world.

There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that. He let go of my hand.