Quotes About Emotion

But it's a good feeling and one does so like to have that.

How could she explain to him what her love was like? That although it was a love stronger than death, it wasn't the kind of love one *did* anything about?

Leonora liked to think of her life as calm of mind, all passion spent, or, more rarely, as emotion recollected in tranquillity.

It seemed so much safer and more comfortable to live in the lives of other people - to observe their joys and sorrows with detachment as if one were watching a film or a play.

Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria.

Yet she felt, as we so often do with somebody we love, that any little defect could only make him more dear to her.

You've done her a service to teach her that romantic love is largely made of illusion." [said Mina.] "Is it?" Alessandra asked, unable to suppress a worried sigh. Mina looked at her as if she knew exactly what Alessandra was thinking. "I said 'romantic love,' my dear--not true love." "But how can one know," asked Alessandra, "one from the other?" "True love," said Mina, "is something that reveals itself only with the passage of time.

Seems to me people are mean or evil because they're scared, mostly, or in pain, or afraid they're going to lose something.

His mouth. It touched hers lightly, just touched at first. And it seemed every nerve in her body suddenly rushed toward her mouth to join the explosion of sensation his lips brought. He moved his head and his mouth slid one way, then the other, and his fingers tightened around her neck, pulling her closer.

He kissed her violently, wanting to somehow inhale her into himself, unable to stop the fury of his reaction, the trembling rocking hunger for her—so vast and all-encompassing, he couldn't stand it. Mattie, flowing all around him, met his savagery. He clasped her hips hard against him, found himself biting her neck, laving her breasts with his tongue. He felt such unblunted, furious desire he thought he might die of it.

The man was in his late thirties, with coarse black hair and a powerfully angled face. The horse with him made a sudden noise, a high whining sound, and its graceful head tossed, jerked. The man let the reins go, and the horse galloped to the fence where Zeke stood waiting. Mattie glanced at him. He'd climbed onto the fence and leaned over the top, softly whistling a series of notes. On his face was an expression Mattie had never seen—equal parts joy and sorrow.

His mouth was wet and hot and intensely demanding, so sharp and piercing with need that it broke through Mattie's defenses the way nothing else could have. A burst of excruciating hunger made her almost frantic with wanting him. She shifted in his arms and met his kiss wide open, giving as furiously as she took. "Oh, Mattie," he said against her mouth. "I've never wanted a woman in my life like I want you. You're driving me crazy.

She came apart, and Zeke let go, driving into her without restraint, thrilling to the cry that escaped her throat. Her body convulsed around him, a roaring filled his ears. He splintered into a billion pieces. His heart, made of thinnest glass, shattered.

Mattie watched him cross the clearing with long-limbed ease, his movements loose and calm. His hair shone in the sunlight. Her heart caught. Strider. Yes, she loved him. It wasn't logical or sensible or anything of those other things. He was not the kind of man she'd daydreamed about all of her life, safe and stolid and dependable, but he was the one. The One.

In all those women there is not one to match you. They have known my flesh. You have known my heart, and stolen my soul.

I would rather love with all my heart and soul and mind for one hour than to suffer all my life with the lack.

scent is the only sense that bypasses the brain and thought centers and goes directly to the limbic system?

takes us directly to visceral memories, transporting us to a time and place instantly.

The heart hates unfinished business

The turnings of thought" (citta-v?tti) refers to the totality of mental processes—conscious, subconscious, and hyperconscious—not simply to the faculties of intellect, recollection, or emotion.

Priceless things matter not for their value, but because they offer us an enduring reminder of stability and permanence.

Why do you always wear black?" She delighted me with her answer, the correct, the only, answer. "I'm in mourning for my life. I'm unhappy.

A disturbing experience it had been, exciting and confusing.

There was an aura about 1914 that caused those who sensed it to shiver for mankind. Tears came even to the most bold and resolute.