Quotes About Emotion

He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting: I love you.

To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction.

Revenge is an act which you want to commit when you are powerless and because you are powerless: as soon as the sense of impotence is removed, the desire evaporates also. Who

At the heart of the matter is a battle between wish and fear. Fear generally proves stronger than a wish, but it leaves a taste of disappointment on the tongue.

It can safely be said that no one has touched more lives, more deeply, than Death. Through this devastating memoir, it is hoped he will touch many, many more.

Some said that he died with tears on his cheeks, his last words being the uncharacteristically hesitant, "I am perplexed." Others thought that his final utterance was the melancholic admission, "Sometimes I hate myself." His

Tears of gratitude filled my eyes.

To suggest the contrary was to infuriate her.

Quoique mon être ait subi des modifications et passé par des phases d'action et de réaction, comme tous les êtres pensants, il est au fond toujours le même : besoin de croire, soif de connaître, plaisir d'aimer.

let us never trouble ourselves to explain why people love us, but how they love us. Happy the man who can be loved, no matter for what reason!

des larmes plutôt gémies que pleurées, une douleur parlée plutôt que sentie

Nous croyons que la mission de l'art est une mission de sentiment et d'amour

Nunca me ha ocurrido; no sé llorar. En cuanto las lágrimas acuden a mis ojos, los sollozos anudan mi garganta, me ahogo, mi respiración se mezcla con gritos y gemidos; y, como aborrezco dar espectáculos de dolor, he pensado en quedarme muerta; y así he de morir probablemente algún día, si alguna desgracia me sorprende estando sola.

Le mal du pays fait cet effet-là à tout le monde : il transforme les objets de nos souvenirs en idéalités poétiques, dont les qualités grandissent à nos yeux, tandis que les défauts s'adoucissent toujours avec le temps et l'absence, et vont jusqu'à s'effacer dans notre imagination.

Beauty as we feel it is something indescribable; what it is or what it means can never be said.

What I mean to say is, we had been considerable. Had been loved. Not lonely, not lost, not freakish, but wise, each in his or her own way. Our departures caused pain. Those who had loved us sat upon their beds, heads in hand; lowered their faces to tabletops, making animal noises. We had been loved, I say, and remembering us, even many years later, people would smile, briefly gladdened at the memory.

That's all poetry is, really: something odd, coming out. Normal speech, overflowed. A failed attempt to do justice to the world. The poet proves that language is inadequate by throwing herself at the fence of language and being bound by it. Poetry is the resultant bulging of the fence.

And I woslike: O wow.

I was back to feeling myself which, believe me, is no picnic.

Russian short story master Isaac Babel put it, "no iron spike can pierce a human heart as icily as a period in the right place.

Love, love, I know what you are.

Ma was out back, head in hands, weaving in and out of her heaped-up crap. It was both melodramatic and not. I mean, when Ma feels something deeply, that's what she does: melodrama. Which makes it, I guess, not melodrama?

Of suddenly remembering what was lost.

And then she kissed me with a kiss I can only describe as melting