Quotes About Emotion

I haven't any right to criticize books, and I don't do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary.

Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.

Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.

Don't wake up a woman in love. Let her dream, so that she does not weep when she returns to her bitter reality

When, over the following months, Minta Randall found that Eustace apparently reciprocated her profoundest and most secret feelings, she thought she had never lived before, or knew what life could hold, or what absolute power one heart could exert upon another. She perceived no trace, fossil, or echo of this wild sensation anywhere around her, and concluded that she and Eustace had invented it together, which would be, she thought, just like them.

It was a clear, picturesque day, a February day without could, without emotion or spirit, like a beautiful women with an empty face.

The physicality of storytelling must remain strong.

The question was not death; living things die. It was love. Not that we died, but that we cared wildly, then deeply, for one person out of billions. We bound ourselves to the fickle, changing, and dying as if they were rock.

Bad poetry is almost always bad because it attempts to claim for itself the real power of whatever it describes in ten lines: a sky full of stars, first love, or Niagara Falls.

Pain cannot be kept intact, it needs to be "processed," converted into humor.

I have searched for my mother's love in all the corners of the world.

I do not wish to explain my passion—that would imply that it was a mistake or some disorder I need to justify—I just want to describe it.

J'ai tué ma mère en moi à ce moment-là.

I shall try to conjure up each of the sentences engraved in my memory which were either so unbearable or so comforting to me at the time that the mere thought of them today engulfs me in a wave of horror or sweetness.

How could he have not known this kind of love existed? How could he have thought he understood something about the way God loved his children when he had so vastly underestimated the depths of emotion a father feels for his child?

He thought his heart would kill him, he'd had no clue what it was capable of.

She never knows when it might strike. The rage. And when it does, she loses her grip on herself—literally. At times, she could swear she sees another self—shiny black phantom, faceless, as though clad in a bodysuit—leaping out of her, pulling the rest of her in its wake. Over the edge.

She is so beautiful. My Rose. Finer than sculpture, softer than sand. Rose, I'm kissing you now. Oh God, I have to kiss her. I will die if I don't kiss her, I know that now. It is a fact. I will die. It will kill me.

Then she kissed me in that way that makes me hate time.

He felt, before he learned anything about where she came from, that the photograph had made them one.

La gratitud es el pensamiento del corazón.

Las personas que no sienten ninguna emoción sufren de frialdad emocional, de atrofia interior. De ellas no brota ni una brizna de vitalidad, y tampoco dinamismo alguno.

We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think