Quotes About Emotions

Held at bay by the hate of others, preoccupied with his own feelings, he was continuously at war with reality.

I wish I could be an example to you... I knew that I had conquered him, had rid myself of him mentally and emotionally; but I wanted to be sure. You are not an example to me; you could never be, I spat at him. You're a warning.

Did you ever feel happy in church? Naw. I didn't want to. Nobody but poor folks get happy in church. But you are poor, Bigger. Again Bigger's eyes lit with a bitter and feverish pride. I ain't that poor.

The more closely the author thinks of why he wrote, the more he comes to regard his imagination as a kind of self-generating cement which glued his facts together, and his emotions as a kind of dark and obscure designer of those facts. Reluctantly, he comes to the conclusion that to account for his book is to account for his life.

to see was not to control, that self-understanding was far short of self-mastery. He was afraid of himself.

While his mother sank in his eyes into the embodiment of passivity and victimization, he found it almost impossible to forge warm ties with other human beings.

Hate yearned to destroy and sought to forget, but love could not. Love strove creatively towards days that had yet to come.

I went to work, but the mood of the book would not die; it lingered, coloring everything I saw, heard, did. I now felt that I knew what the white man were feeling. Merely because I had read a book that had spoken of how they lived and thought, I identified myself with that book.

The cross the preacher had told him about was bloody, not flaming; meek, not militant. It had made him feel awe and wonder, not fear and panic. It had made him want to kneel and cry, but this cross made him want to curse and kill.

I thought they was hard and I acted hard. He paused, then whimpered in confession, But I ain't hard, Mr. Max. I ain't hard even a little bit.... He rose to his feet. But.... I-I won't be crying none when they take me to that chair. But I'll b-b-be feeling inside of me like I was crying.... I'll be feeling and thinking that they didn't see me and I didn't see them....

The plots and stories in the novels did not interest me so much as the point of view revealed. I gave myself over to each novel without reserve, without trying to criticize it; it was enough for me to see and feel something different. And for me, everything was something different. Reading was like a drug, a dope. The novels created moods in which I lived for days.

While listening to the vivid language of the sermons I was pulled toward emotional belief, but as soon as I went out of the church and saw the bright sunshine and felt the throbbing life of the people in the streets I knew that none of it was true and that nothing would happen.

you can never predict how you will behave when you stand before the tower of vengeance you have erected.

Há memórias que são o próprio amor: o toque das mãos da minha mãe; o cheiro do cachimbo do meu Papá; o sorriso de Meia-Noite. E os olhos de Violeta. Compreendi que para mim ela era ao mesmo tempo uma estranha e a maior das amigas.

Wasn't I right? Isn't it nice here?" Miranda thought fast. "Well…there's atmosphere, that's for sure." "I could never come here all by myself. But when Roo's mad or sad or worried about something, this is where she always runs away to." "Yeah." Parker sighed. "Too bad she always runs back home again.

his hardest cases, where parents, upstanding people, had reported children missing but were later proven to have lied to cover up abuse, an accidental death or a homicide. He had looked into the eyes of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and friends as they lied, watched their tears, even believed that they were convinced in the truth of their own lies until the facts, the evidence, emerged and the incontrovertible truth was revealed.

Dad, she can't be dead. She's my mom. She can't be.

if only she hadn't agreed to wear the pink pajamas there in the Mercer Hotel. Because once I saw her in them, I loved her in the same way I love my sister, which is an impasse of the truly impassable sort. ????

Which man among us is not, most of the time, possessed of the desire to curl himself into a foetal ball?

Linda cranked the greatest hits of heartbreak and we sat down on the carpeted floor to listen. I missed you.

He had been lonely even in his wife's arms, lonely in crowds, lonely at meetings, lonely throwing tennis balls for his dog, lonely playing Operation with his kids. He had been lonely during commuter conversations, lonely during late-night heart-to-hearts with old fraternity brothers. His dad, living alone up in New Hampshire, made Hood lonely. The severe landscapes of November made him lonely.

Richard Nixon was a serial collector of resentments.

Ronald Reagan was just as angry. But he made you want to stand right alongside him and shake your fist at the same things he was shaking his fist at.

The best measure of a politician's electoral success was becoming not how successfully he could broker people's desires, but how well he could tap their fears.