Quotes About Emotions

Many of Juan Diego's demons had been his childhood companions-he knew them so well, they were as familiar as friends.

God, I think I just hit a high E-flat - and I really held it! Esmeralda said, after one of her more prolonged orgasms, but my ears were warm and sweaty, and my head had been held so tightly between her thighs that I hadn't heard anything.

What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us are wrapped up in parentheses.

Juan Diego lived there, in the past—reliving, in his imagination, the losses that had marked him.

Well, you finally got me, Helen had whispered to him, tearfully, but Garp had sprawled there, on his back on the wrestling mat, wondering who had gotten whom.

Isn't it perfectly possible that Nils and his wife are too depressed to have kids? The prospect of having kids depresses the shit out of me, and I'm neither suicidal nor Norwegian!

It often happens with grown-ups that their tears are misunderstood. (Who can know which time in their lives they are reliving?)

The way you remember or dream about your loved ones - the ones who are gone - you can't stop their endings from jumping ahead of the rest of their stories. You don't get to choose the chronology of what you dream, or the order of events in which you remember someone. In your mind - in your dreams, in your memories - sometimes the story begins with the epilogue.

when however small a measure of jealousy is mixed with misunderstanding, there is going to be trouble.

Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't.

You don't choose your nightmares; they choose you.

Fucking men.

And when you love a book, commit one glorious sentence of it—perhaps your favorite sentence—to memory. That way you won't forget the language of the story that moved you to tears.

He might have told Homer, then, that he loved him very much and that he needed something very active to occupy himself at this moment of Homer's departure.

Motherfucking Christ," Gerry said to me on that Christmas Day, 1960. "Isn't it perfectly possible that Nils and his wife are too depressed to have kids? The prospect of having kids depresses the shit out of me, and I'm neither suicidal nor Norwegian!

There is at least one terrible thing about lovers – real lovers, I mean: people who are in love with each other, even then they will relish their every physical contact in a sexual way; even when they're supposed to be in a kind of mourning, they can get aroused. Franny and I simply couldn't have gone on holding each other on the stairs: it was impossible to touch each other, at all, and not want to touch everything.

Love also floats. And, that being true, love probably resembles Sorrow in other ways.

It's not the tattoos, my dear boy," Jack's father said, standing naked before him—the shocking white of William's hands and face and neck and penis being the only parts of him that weren't an almost uniform blue-black, some of which had faded to gray. "It's everything I truly heard and felt—it's everything I ever loved! It's not the tattoos that marked me.

And feeling like a failed sexual predator, because of pregnant Mary…

Grief is contagious," Marion began again. "I didn't want you to catch my grief, Eddie. I really didn't want Ruth to catch it.

Mother and Egg would meet us in Vienna the next day; Sorrow would fly with them.

We had learned this fact of Sorrow, previously, from Frank: Sorrow floats.

That Emma was a restless soul was obvious, but not even Jack (not even Emma) was aware that something was seriously wrong with her.

You are never over your childhood, not until