Quotes About Emotions

I asked her how she did it once, how she understood the world so clearly. She told me that it was a matter of keeping very still and showing no emotions, leaving room for others to reveal themselves.

The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

When he speaks at last, his voice is weary, and defeated. He doesn't know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won't light.

He knew, but it was not enough. The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

This is the grief that makes our kind choose to be stones and trees rather than flesh.

That old sickening feeling returned: that every moment of my life I had been a fool.

At first it is strange. I am used to keeping him from her, to hoarding him for myself. But the memories well up like springwater, faster than I can hold them back. They do not come as words, but like dreams, rising as scent from the rain-wet earth. 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.

I could have told him more, of the dreams that left me bleary and bloodshot, the almost-screams that scraped my throat as I swallowed them down. The way the stars turned and turned through the night above my unsleeping eyes.

It was so simple. If you want it, I will do it. If it would make you happy, I will go with you. Is there a moment that a heart cracks? But a cracked heart was not enough, and I had grown wise enough to know it. I kissed him and left him there.

Often those men in most need hate most to be grateful, and will strike at you just to feel whole again.

Good. I wanted him angry. He would make mistakes that way.

I sifted and resifted my memories of Aeëtes, all those hours we had leaned against each other. That old sickening feeling returned: that every moment of my life I had been a fool.

He doesn't know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won't light.

A true-made bow, Odysseus had called her. A fixed star. A woman who knew herself. "I asked her how she did it once, how she understood the world so clearly. She told me that it was a matter of keeping very still and showing no emotions, leaving room for others to reveal themselves.

Tears came, and fell. Above us, the constellations spun, and the moon paced her weary course.

I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room, loving him in silence

I touched the thought like a bruise, testing its ache.

whatever tears might have been in me for that lost dream had been parched away.

Mother? Can you not be happy for me?" No, I wanted to shout at him. No, I cannot. Why must I be happy? Is it not enough that I let you go?

I covered myself with my hands and made soft noises like a child. Blush, blush, I prayed. Blush for him, or he will kill you. And I was fortunate, for it was warm in the room, and I was angry, and ashamed too,

How is Paphos, my love?" "Fine," he said. Just that ugly, nothing word.

How long would I cling to that handful of minutes, trying to cover myself as if with some threadbare blanket?

But a cracked heart was not enough, and I had grown wise enough to know it. I kissed him and left him there.

And perhaps, it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone Do you think? Perhaps, Achilles admitted