Quotes About Emotions

But we want young men. Romance. Love and things, I said, despondently.

But we want young men. Romance. Love and things,' I said, despondently.

But any book that is any good must be, to some extent, autobiographical, because one cannot and should not fabricate emotions; and although style and narrative are crucial, the bulwark, emotion, is what finally matters. With luck, talent, and studiousness, one manages to make a little pearl, or egg, or something . . .

Only fools think that men and women love differently. Fools and pedagogues. I tell you, the love of men for women is just as heartbreaking, just as muddled, just as bewildering, and in the end, just as unfinished.

I could feel she was angry with me because of my gawkiness, because of my accent and my oilskin bag, bound with twine. She talked to herself, mumbled, as the train rumbled along. Then all of a sudden her mood changed and she kissed me and hugged me and said my mother and her mother were first cousins and that meant that she and I were second cousins and would be buddies.

the lonely evening sound of the mothers, saying it is not our fault that we weep so, it is nature's fault that makes us first full, then empty.

it was then I cried, cried for the fact of not having cried and for the immensity of tears yet to be shed.

any book that is any good must be, to some extent, autobiographical, because one cannot and should not fabricate emotions; and although style and narrative are crucial, the bulwark, emotion, is what finally matters.

Strindberg came to the rescue. Why, he had asked her, did every woman he ever met have to bring her bloody mother into the bed, every bloody woman, including his own wife, Siri. "You have a wife," she had said.

motherless mothers with their skinless mysteries.

I cannot be certain what I would have said. I knew that there was something sad and faintly distasteful about love's ending, particularly love that has never been fully realised. I might have hinted at that, but I doubt it. In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things. Edna O'Brien, short story Sister Imelda, in Returning.

My mother is dead, my mother is dead," she kept saying it in her numbed state, because it had not sunk in. It is outside of her, it is a figment, both because it is so sudden and because she cannot pinpoint the exact moment, it being such and such a time in one land and a different time on the clock of the other. It had happened in lost time. The three previous days are jumbled

I have learned that neither kindness nor cruelty by themselves; independent of each other, creates any effect beyond themselves; and I have learned that the two combined, together, at the same time, are the teaching emotion. And what is gained is loss.

Stevie: (Not listening) That you can do these two things... and not understand how it... SHATTERS THE GLASS!!?? How it cannot be dealt with-how stop and forgiveness have nothing to do with it? and how I am destroyed? How you are? How I cannot admit it though I know it!? How I cannot deny it because I cannot admit it!? Cannot admit it, because it is outside of denying!?

Yes … but was I happy? Did I sit there and did contentment bathe me in its warm light?

There are a lot of sad stories. It seems like everybody has one to tell.

It is not the logical part of thinking that changes emotions but the perceptual part. If we see something differently, our emotions may alter with the altered perception. (p64)

There may be more danger in prejudices which are apparently founded in logic than in those which are acknowledged as emotions.

The conflict was terrible; it was the combat of despair against grief and rage.

Having got into bed and turned out the light, I quietly burst into tears because I am not a good person. As they came and went for some minutes, I was concerned with the words following 'because' in the previous sentence, rewriting them over and over in my head until they seemed to be as close to the truth as it was possible for me to make them.

It's strange how people can preach brotherly love one day and tear you to bits the next.

El amor podía llegar de repente, sin presentirlo, del sitio más inesperado, y quedarse un tiempo antes de alejarse hacia un lugar inalcanzable.

Sviatopolk tenía la impresión de que ya no podía seguir odiando, pues el odio que se había nutrido con él año tras año, impulsándolo hacia delante como un cruel jinete que hinca las espuelas en los flancos de su caballo, había acabado por agotarlo.

Ella era su antigua amante, su confidente y su amiga.