Quotes About Emotions

In the whole two years of their marriage she had never said anything similar, anything to indicate that she felt their being together was something less than a part of natural law.

Men were odd. One day they were hard, far too hard; the next day they were soft, far too soft. They were like porcupines: prickly on the outside, but with soft bellies.

Of course, children were endless work. They came when you didn't want them and had needs you didn't always want to meet. Worst of all they died no matter how much you loved them. The death of her own had frozen the hope inside her harder than the wintery ground. Her hopes had frozen hard and she vowed to keep it that way, and yet she hadn't. The hopes thawed.

He had know several men who blew their heads off, and he has pondered it much. It seemed to him it was probably because they could not take enough happiness just from the sky and the moon to carry them over the low feelings that came to all men.

It was an odd thing, but true, that the death of an enemy could affect you as much almost as much as the death of a friend.

Augustus remembered his own love for Clara Allen—it had pained him and pleased him at once.

said quietly. "It's how much you're worth to yourself. It's what you really can feel that makes you nice.

He was embarked, at the time, on a book sighing—I insist, sighing, not signing, though he's pretty adept at that too.

I ain't sick, Gus, Lippy said, a little embarrassed by his tears. Soon he felt a little better. Lonesome Dove was hidden—he could barely see the top of the little church house across the chaparral flats. It's funny, leaving a place, ain't it? he said. You never do know when you'll get back.

soon he would have to learn to call his depression happiness in order to endure it.

Fear is the brother of hate. One

I'll have to get over this sooner or later, Louis thought. Why not now? A friend had taught him this cantrip, this bit of magic for recovering from shock or grief. Sometimes it worked.

Love was a delicious blend of warm and cold. There was comfort in making love. It solved no problems: but one could run away from problems.

We see that fear isn't something we own or have any control over. We've been living as if we do, as if we should be able not to feel it. But all we can do is meet it skillfully.

For me, writing is a love-hate relationship.

What is it that keeps us in motion? Not seldom, the fear that the bitterness of the past will catch up with us. The bitterness over all missed opportunities. Bitterness at being who you are, and still not more like yourself.

We loved each other in the same difficult, unusable way where you took turns doing it, instead of ever managing to do it at the same time.

Why could we say more to each other when it counted less?

That's the brutality of a breakup, isn't it? The people leaving think they did everything possible, the people left behind think what is possible hasn't even been tested yet.

It's a terrible thing to know everything about someone long after you want to.

I don't think you get to be mad at someone unless they come through for you. I don't think you have that luxury. I think you think you can be mad, but really you're just doing something else. What's that? Waiting.

Maybe we are all fools, one way or another, when it comes to seeing the totality of the people who love us--the people we try to love. [Hannah Hall]

Even now, after Nick had caused me pain, the truth was I didn't want to cause him any. Wasn't that love, after all?

In one way or another, this is the deal we all sign when we love someone. For better or worse. It's the deal we have to sign again and again to keep that love. We don't turn away from the parts of someone we don't want to see. However quickly or long it takes to see them. We accept them if we are strong enough. Or we accept them enough to not let the bad parts become the entire story. Because