Quotes About Emotions

This would never have happened if you had just found her for me when I asked you to," I explode, rounding on him. "This is why she disappeared. She found out she was pregnant." "You don't know that." "I have a child out there, Yef. A boy. And he doesn't know who his father is.

What did he do to make you leave?" she asks. "If you don't mind me prying." "He married me," I say softly.

Pain is real when you get other people to believe in it. If no one believes in it but you, your pain is madness or hysteria.

L'envie est une déclaration d'infériorité.

If we could read the past histories of all our enemies we would disregard all hostility for them.

You may be hurt if you love too much, but you will live in misery if you love too little.

History paints the human heart.

My tidyness and untidyness are full of complicated feelings of regret and sadness.

Ma non si amano soltanto le memorie felici. A un certo punto della vita, ci si accorge che si amano le memorie.

They weren't happy memories because your father and I were never happy together. Even if we had been briefly and occasionally happy, everything got sullied, ripped up, and destroyed. But people don't love each other only for happy memories. At a certain point in life, you realize that you just love the memories.

It seemed to us that his sadness was that of a boy, the voluptuous heedless melancholy of a boy who has still not come down to earth, and moves in the arid, solitary world of dreams.

Aggression and depression sound like two different, even polarized phenomena, but they're not. Depression is aggression turned inward, directed against the self, or the imagined, threatening self. A seriously depressed person may look anesthetized to an observer, but the depressed person is never anesthetized to herself. She may wish to be, and she may seek to be with chemical aid, but she cannot truly placate her sneering, jabbering, nested aggressor.

A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people," the novelist and essayist Thomas Mann complained. "When I come home for lunch after writing all morning, my wife says I look like I just came home from a funeral," said Carl Hiaasen—and he writes comic novels.

Well, thought Winnie, crossing her arms on the windowsill, she was different. Things had happened to her that were hers alone, and had nothing to do with them. It was the first time. And no amount of telling about it could help them understand or share what she felt. It was satisfying and lonely, both at once.

Whether you're keeping a journal or writing as a meditation, it's the same thing. What's important is you're having a relationship with your mind.

Reach out of the deep chasm of your loneliness and express yourself to another human being.

Don't worry, no one ever died of it. You might cry or laugh, but not die.

TAKE A SUBJECT, a situation, a story that is hard for you to talk about, and write about it. Write slowly, evenly, in a measured way. Don't skip over any part of it. Stay in there. It might take you several days, a week, a month to write out the whole thing. Continue to work on it every day until it is finished.

The ability to put something down—to tell how you feel about an old husband, an old shoe, or the memory of a cheese sandwich on a gray morning in Miami—that moment you can finally align how you feel inside with the words you write; at that moment you are free because you are not fighting those things inside. You have accepted them, become one with them.

Divorce was very sad, obviously, but now I've gotten over it.

I like singer-songwriters, and I find sad songs comforting rather than depressing. It makes you realise you're not alone in the world.

It's much easier to write when you're sad. But you can end up isolated and depressed because you almost need to put yourself in that situation to have that angst to write from.

The old men with their traditions challenged Refrained from tears.

If you'd only let me come by myself, none of this would have happened. Having you around makes everything worse.' She buried her head under her pillow. 'Stop it! you're so cold! You're heartless, you little robot!' The pillow muffled her words, but they still stung. 'I feel things,' I said. 'I'm not a robot!' I stamped my foot and screamed. Then I burst into tears. I touched the wet little drops and held them toward her. 'See, I'm not a robot. This is proof.