Quotes About Emotion

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same

Nelly, I am Heathcliff - he's always, always in my mind - not as a pleasure, any more then I am always a pleasure to myself - but, as my own being.

He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

[Said by Catherine:] I am Heathcliff.

She burned too bright for this world.

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those we have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

Bring me the sunset in a cup.

The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care

Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.

Prefiero ser odiado que amado con tibieza»

Pues las cosas son así: jamás apreciamos en su justa medida aquello de que gozamos mientras lo disfrutamos, pero, cuando sentimos su falta si lo perdemos entonces su valía exageramos; entonces descubrimos las virtudes que no estimamos cuando eran nuestro.

For each ecstatic instantWe must an anguish payIn keen and quivering ratioTo the ecstasy.

Love's stricken "why"Is all that love can speak—Built of but just a syllableThe hugest hearts that break.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

This was what love did. It unhinged you.

Fucking was poetry unbound.

The loss of her is already too much and then there's the other thing – the end of being loved in the way only my sister could love me. What I feel for her survives and that hurts like battery acid every minute, but worse is that what she felt for me died with her. I will never be loved like that again.

We carry our past with us everywhere we go.

Theodora never married. Love did not, however, kill her—at least, if it did, it was a long time at the task, as she survived these events more than sixty years. She never, seemingly, forgot the past.