Quotes About Emotions

Her body feels like cracked glass, already shattered, and held in place only by a trick of temporary gravity. One wrong move and she will come to pieces.

The flashbacks dump adrenaline into her bloodstream a hundred times a day, so her body is helpfully exhausted.

So there it is. The welling reservoir of grief, keen and profound beneath the bruise, the proof of her humanity, still intact. She needs to bury it back where it was. She can't indulge it yet.

His grief is not the same as hers.

He's like a small, human bellows, and she a fire that's dimmed to embers.

They kept nothing of import from each other, but Lydia liked having a sacred cupboard within herself, to which only she was allowed access.

She wonders if he feels anything now, or if he's shut it all down, if Marta's death was too much for him, so he found a loophole, a way to opt out of humanity. She is stronger than he is; she feels every molecule of her loss and she endures it. She is not diluted, but amplified. Her love for Luca is bigger, louder. Lydia is vivid with life.

When at last they begin to move, instead of happiness or relief, they all feel a tentative, miniature suspension of dread.

She slams the trunk, walks back to the front seat to select one of his notebooks, not yet allowing herself to consider the reason she does this—to retain a personal record of his extinct handwriting.

She fights at every moment against the scream that pulses inside her like a living thing.

Lydia siempre ha sido una madre devota, pero nunca codependiente, como esas madres que extrañan a sus hijos cuando están en la escuela o cuando duermen. Siempre atesoró ese tiempo para sí, para habitar sus propios pensamientos y descansar del incesante clamor emocional de la maternidad.

Luca wonders what it would feel like to blow up like that. But for now he remains undetonated, his horrors sealed tightly inside, his pin fixed snugly in place.

At sixteen, the adolescent knows about suffering because he himself has suffered, but he barely knows that other beings also suffer.

Our affections as well as our bodies are in perpetual flux.

Film is like a battleground: There's love, hate, action, violence, death. In one word, emotions.

People sometimes make unexpected choices when they're lonely

Endings are sad, aren't they?" "Yes.

Was she in love? Rosalind had asked herself that many times in the last few weeks. Anna's mother said you're in love when you feel like you've been hit by a truck. Rosalind felt bad enough for a motorcycle, maybe, but not a truck.

And depression settled over the kitchen like a wet fog.

It wasn't a rock. It was a dog's rubber bone, left behind months ago to be buried first under autumn leaves, then winter snow. Just an old rubber bone, but Batty was already braced for what she knew would come—the rushing in her ears, the stab in her stomach, and the seeping away of the colors from her world. The soft blue spring sky, the yellow forsythia hedge, even Ben's bright red hair—all dulled, all gray and wretched.

Not everyone is fodder for books," said Rosalind.

Jane easily dribbled around her. "HA! MAD COW! YOU'RE ALL MAD COWS!" "AND YOU'RE A"—shouted Melissa furiously—"YOU'RE A MADDER COW!

Jeffrey, Jeffrey, I'm so happy to be with you at last," said Skye. "Thank you." Jeffrey turned away to hide his sorrow. "But what is this? Aren't you glad to see me?" "Of course I am, dear Skye." He turned back to her, his face ablaze with honesty. "But it is your beautiful and talented sister, Jane, whom I prefer.

Jane breaking Jérôme's heart