Quotes About Emotions

We writers can use our own longing - and frequently do - without ever having to understand or analyze it. That is why our stories are often wiser than we are.

So much longing. So many lives filled with longing. It's what stories? all our stories? are made of. And what is longing made of except hope?

tears are probably the best cure for a touch of sadness." The Blue Ghost

tears are probably the best cure for a touch of sadness.

Be kind - Remember every one you meet is fighting a battle - everybody's lonesome.

The longing for sweets is really a yearning for love or "sweetness.

This is your body, your greatest gift, pregnant with wisdom you do not hear, grief you thought was forgotten, and joy you have never known.

She dreams she is in a glass coffin. From her prison, details have beauty. In her aloneness, she imagines emotions. Her husband is the perfect bridegroom, the trickster, the small boy looking for mother. She is goddess and mirror, siren and friend, femme fatale and sacrificing wife. He is attracted to her girlhood purity, her desire to sacrifice, to serve. At first he may be flattered: she sees him as a god.

Recognizing the difference between power and love is difficult if we were raised in a home where power was disguised as love.

The man who feels fear without cause is a fool; but the man is twice a fool who does not feel fear when there is cause.

It's ok to feel happy, right? She hoped he'd know what she meant.

When it comes to Clare, sometimes, the past isn't past. The past can get as present as any present ever was, so near that I feel its breath.

What's killing him is the idea that I will die unhappy, in a miserable marriage. He hates that my life isn't ending on a good note… So I told him that he's a good man and was the love of my life, both of which are true. I tried to tell him all the things I hadn't told him before… Mostly, I wanted him to understand the real reason I'd thought our marriage was over. It was over because we forgot to stay in love. Both of us.

Still Dev missed him. Not all the time or even very often, but now and then, missing would hit Dev, throw him off balance, a sudden, undeniable ache to know his father, how his voice sounded, what his face did when he read the paper or looked at his son. And the missing wasn't fair; it wasn't earned. In fact, the missing, the searching, the imagining were so unfair that when you put them all together, they looked a lot like betrayal.

Honestly, the idea of wanting to spend time with people one did not love absolutely mystified her.

returned wedding gifts and penned endless notes of apology to the givers and to all our would-be-turned-would-not-be wedding guests, and if I say that I felt every word of those notes carve themselves into my skin like in that scary Dolores Umbridge detention scene in the fifth Harry Potter, I'm exaggerating, but only a little.

But our little stories were glimpses into the interior; colorful postcards from the lands of Martin and Cornelia.

She feels like the subject of her sex life is a puppy or a ferret, something she'd never in her right mind let off its leash, but which is now somehow running amok among total strangers.

I tried to tell him all the things I hadn't told him before. How it was both our faults, how I'd taken over with the kids and not let the two of us be in that together. Mostly, I wanted him to understand the real reason I'd thought our marriage was over. It was over because we forgot to stay in love. Both of us.

Dev felt suddenly ashamed of himself for what he'd thought earlier, back in the car, that Lyssa should keep her craziness to herself, that having to feel compassion for a messed-up, hurting person was annoying and unfair.

I am not necessarily a balanced person by nature, but I try. When I think a bad thought, I try to balance it out with a happy one. It doesn't work all the time, but if I do say so myself, over the years, I've gotten good at it.

I laughed. I cried. Sometimes, hours or days after I'd last seen Trillium, some tiny, jewel-colored piece of story would come winging toward me out of the blue, and I would laugh or cry again.

At first she was happy because she had decided to be, and then she relaxed into her happiness and just felt it.

She could imagine sustaining certain emotions at that pitch for that long—love absolutely, grief probably, guilt maybe—but hatred was exhausting and gave so little back.