Quotes About Emotions

Era imposible de explicar, ni siquiera a Anna, que sentirse solo no tenía nada que ver con la soledad, sino con el espíritu, y que por esa misma razón esa sensación se veía agravada a menudo estando en compañía.

But lately I have learned what it is to be human. Learned, but not understood. It seems to involve a great deal of misery crammed into a very short lifetime." His

God's Teeth,' he says. 'I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep.' 'I was not,' I say, then look from his neck to my knife. 'When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me.' He sounds sore put out. and I cannot blame him.

It is a good thing I no longer have a heart, because if I did, it would surely break.

I cannot tell her I have been moping over a broken heart when I have worked so hard to convince her I have no heart at all.

Reluctantly, I headed for the stairs. I wasn't dawdling. Not exactly. Just giving Father a bit of time to calm down.

I'm so tired of being lonely,she thought. In so tired of never going out, of never being with a boy,off never having a boy care about me.

She realized she'd never felt this happy.even at her old school, she had been an outsider, always the lonely girl,the one who stayed at home watching tv on Saturday nights while her friends went to parties and out on dates.

That's one of my problems. I never get angry quick enough. I never speak up when I am really mad. And then I feel silly bringing it up later.

an unhappy person can never give happiness, so stay away from him.

Instead of being resentful that God is jealous, we should be thankful that He is like that. It shows He cares!

All that happens in the human brain is but the result of electro-chemical reactions. Be it of love, hate, of pleasure, of suffering, of imagination, or all other states of mind, sentiment or sickness; the process depends in every case on the chemical reactions produced in the interior of the brain, and the resulting electrical impulses or messages, be they visual, auditory, based on memory, or an interpretation of new events based on elements that one has in the memory.

I opened myself to you only to be skinned alive. The more vulnerable I became, the faster and more deft your knife. Knowing what was happening, still I stayed and let you carve more. That's how much I loved you. That's how much.

When I read a book, I try my best, not always successfully, to let the wall crumble just a bit, the barricade that separates me from the book. I try to be involved. I am Raskalnikov. I am K. I am Humbert and Lolita. I am you. If you read these pages and think I'm the way I am because I lived through a civil war, you can't feel my pain. If you believe you're not like me because one woman, and only one, Hannah, chose to be my friend, then you're unable to empathize.

I know. You think you love art because you have a sensitive soul. Isn't a sensitive soul simply a means of transforming a deficiency into proud disdain? You think art has meaning. You think you're not like me.

Can you imagine how lonely she must have felt when she received that phone call? Your lover has just died, your companion has abandoned you, but don't you dare make an inappropriate sound, because your family is around. No one to touch you the way he did, no one to understand you, no one to hug you to sleep, but don't dare allow your face to show a glint of grief. The cutting pain of feeling alone amid loved ones.

You wanted people's stories, not them. You cared for the tale, not the teller.

I'd dismembered it in my memories. I'd disremembered it.

My mind becomes congested, jammed with feelings and thoughts that I can't formulate nimbly enough.

Alain Robbe-Grillet once wrote that the worst thing to happen to the novel was the arrival of psychology.

You've been gone for decades, you hid deep in my lakes, why now, why infect my dreams now? What flood is this?

I thought I'd be reading a new book today, but it doesn't feel right, or I don't feel like it. Some days are not new-book days.

I am Raskolnikov. I am K. I am Humbert and Lolita. I am you. If you read these pages and think I'm the way I am because I lived through a civil war, you can't feel my pain. If you believe you're not like me because one woman, and only one, Hannah, chose to be my friend, then you're unable to empathize. Like the bullet, I too stray. Forgive me.

The presence of another person—of any person whatsoever—makes me feel awkward,