Quotes About Emotions

Dear God, what she saw in that look! How he had hidden these many years behind the guise of a simple schoolmaster, she didn't know. Anger, passion, lust, and surging hunger swirled in his stormy eyes. Emotions so stark, so strong, she didn't understand how he kept them under control. He looked as if he were about to attack her, ravish her, and conquer London and the world itself. He could've been a warrior, a statesman, a king.

Darling," she said and caught his face between her hands, making him meet her eyes. He didn't want to. He didn't like the look in her eyes—a grim determination. "I love you," she whispered and his soul soared until she uttered her next words. "But I must leave you." "No." He clutched at her hips as if he were a child of three refusing to give up his toy sword. "No." "Yes," she replied.

He inhaled and spoke without thinking, ignoring their audience. "What has happened?" "You know full well, Your Grace, for what—who—I fight." Her eyes were glittering and he couldn't believe it, but the evidence was clear. Tears. His goddess should never weep. He took her arm. "Artemis.

He met Caire's eyes. I hope we can finish this soon. I left your sister in my bed. St. John swore under his breath and stepped between them, facing Val. Are you insane? Many think so,. Val was watching Caire, his lips twitching. Caire hadn't moved. Only his eyes, hard and staring and trained upon Val, showed that he'd heard Val's words. Those eyes burned a bit like Séraphine's, Val mused, and he wondered if the other man truly meant to kill him this morning. Well, he would certainly try .

I believe that you wanted to love Marie—that you're enamored by the idea of love—but that you have no concept what love is. I think that's what you're searching for in St. Giles—some source of emotion, some inkling of what human feeling really is.

She ducked her head, studying his fingers, spreading them against her own, comparing their lengths. His hand dwarfed hers.

When he died, she took her hopes for a child and wrapped them carefully in a box and buried that box deep, deep in her heart. So deep, she thought never to face that dream again. Except, with one sentence, Edward had exhumed the box and ripped it open. And her hopes, her dreams, her need to bear a child were as fresh now as they had been when she was newly wed.

She caught her breath on a sob. He was going to London to bed another woman.

It was a strange thing, this feeling of empathy. He'd never experienced it before. He realized that what hurt this woman hurt him as well, that what made her bleed caused a hemorrhage of pain within his soul.

In those days, I still thoroughly enjoyed the romance I called by myself; I didn't know yet how it gets lonely, picks up a sharp edge later on that ruins a day now and then-- ruins more than that, if you're not careful.

My guess is that he remembers some of me, some of us together, and the rest rolled off him like topsoil in a flash flood.

And why should I do such a thing- tell you something that can only dismay you? Well, that is the nature of love: it is brutal in its demands.

I hadn't realized before seeing him how thoroughly alone I'd felt on that rain, headed toward the unknown, headed perhaps toward the larger loneliness of being unable to find my father or even toward the galactic loneliness of losing him forever.

Manchmal gibt es kaum etwas Schwierigeres, als zu jemandem zu sprechen, der ueber die Macht des Schweigens verfuegt.

For the first time in all the years I remembered, all the years in which my father had sheltered me from the loneliness of life with no mother, no siblings, no home country, all the years of his being both father and mother - for the first time, I felt like an orphan.

Then he said a strange thing, but to himself. `They lived, didn't they?' And I said yes, that when one reads old letters one understands that people in the past really did live, and it is very touching.

They were taking my natural feelings away, so quietly that it could have occurred without my noticing. I understood in a flash that I must keep my mind safe, whatever came next.

but the first days of loving someone are vivid; you remember them in detail because they represent all the others. They even explain why a particular love doesn't work out.

But wield it with care, lass, do not go blasting out your fury and letting all know it was you. They fear it.

If we do not suffer a loss all the way to the end, it will wait for us. It won't just dissipate and disappear. Rather, it will fester, and we will experience its sorrow later, in stranger forms.

Grief lasts longer than sympathy, which is one of the tragedies of the grieving.

Books remember all the things you cannot contain.

Other people's happiness is always a fascinating bore. It sucks the oxygen out of the room; you're left gasping, greedy, amazed by a deficit in yourself you hadn't ever noticed.

ed. now. picking at the scab that was starting to heal over. why did guys do that? too little too late?