Quotes About Emotions

and I smiled at her because I still liked her from yesterday.

You stayed around your children as long as you could, inhaling the ambient gold shavings of their childhood, and at the last minute you tried to see them off into life and hoped that the little piece of time you'd given them was enough to prevent them from one day feeling lonely and afraid and hopeless. You wouldn't know the outcome for a long time.

Apparently, something can happen inside someone you love—it can just happen somehow—and like magic she thinks that she's had enough, and that the way the two of you have been for a really long time is no longer worth the effort. Does that sound familiar to anyone.

But it had no doubt sprung from true emotion, for all that parents ever wanted, really, was for you to love their child the way they did.

Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.

Even if you yourself were unhappy and anxious, whenever you glimpsed happiness in your child, you suddenly became happy too.

Without company, misery turns to sorrow, and sorrow turns inward, curling up in some dark, damp corner.

No, of course not. I just feel content," she said carefully. "That's an old person's word," said Ethan.

Friendship was a thing of extraordinary value, ever since it had become clear to both of them that lovers never lasted, and that families were the traps you walked into on major holidays and emerged from the next day, stuffed with carbohydrates and seething.

She missed his young, vulnerable, ownable self. You never knew when you were lifting your child for the last time; it might seem like just a regular time, when it was taking place, but later, looking back, it would turn out to have been the last.

to find out what another human being feels, a person who isn't you; to get a look under the hood, so to speak. A deep look inside. That's what writing is supposed to do.

To commit to actual things composed of wood and metal and fabric was to make real the vagueness and unreality of love.

We had a good marriage," he said. "I just thought it would be so much longer." Then he shrugged, and coughed away a sob, this thin man in his sixties with the soft androgynous face that aging seemed to bring, as though all the hormones were finally mixed up in a big coed pot because it just didn't matter anymore.

He couldn't tell her that what we wanted now, more than anything, was to fall asleep beside her. No touching, no kissing, no stimulation. No sensation, no consciousness. Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.

Greer had understood it was hard to escape yourself, and to escape the way it felt being you.

I guess I feel like grief is this huge part of everything," I say in a burst. "But you're supposed to act like it's not.

Books were an antidepressant, a powerful SSRI.

But you never knew what went on inside someone else; how, over time, a thought could become an obsession, and a new shell could form and harden around it.

But all she could feel was that he was her friend, her wonderful and gifted friend.

A child just wants to love her parents and to be loved, and it seems like it should be simple to do that, but sometimes it's not.

Even when I can't relate on a personal level, she makes me know what she feels, and that's really something. To find out what another human being feels, a person who isn't you; to get a look under the hood, so to speak. A deep look inside. That's what writing is supposed to do.

But the loss of possibilities was always undeniably painful.

The human face had too possibilities, and they just kept coming in a fast-moving slide show, one after another.

Our relationship was like one of those YouTube videos of a flower frowning in speeded-up motion. All of the sudden we were in love.