Quotes About Emotion

O love! love! love! Is there any sorrow in life like loving?

Not all the beautiful things are seen, sometimes, they are felt.

To love is simple but difficult

In my heart I knew it was the sort of thing she'd find to be a waste of time, but it meant everything to me, the words having come from my heart to my hand to the page, a bit of myself about to be folded square and sent back home.

Le temps a deux visages, deux dimensions, la longueur est au rythme du soleil, l'épaisseur au rythme des passions.

Tu pleures comme une femme ce que tu n'as pas su défendre comme un homme.

daha önce görmüÅŸtüm, daha önce yapm??t?m, daha önce gerçekleÅŸtirmiÅŸtim duygusu ile clara'y? öpmedim hiç, hatta elini bile tutmad?m! aÅŸk, el deÄŸmemiÅŸ olarak kalabilir, heyecan da öyle. aylar da geçse, y?llar da geçse! hayat, insana b?kk?nl?k verecek kadar uzun deÄŸil!

Ä°nsan özlemini çektiÄŸi sevinçlere ulaÅŸamad??? zaman s?k?l?r.

La blessure n'a pas besoin d'être décrite pour être ressentie

L'amour est soif au bord d'un puits, L'amour est fleur et non pas fruit »

le sentiment d'avoir été victime d'une injustice.Un sentiment qui blesse,mais qui met du baume sur la blessure,un sentiment qui tue parfois,mais qui,bien plus souvent,donne aux femmes de puissantes raisons de vivre et de se battre.

O anda kendi kendime "onu seviyorum" demiyordum.Ne kendime ne de tabii ona.Yasli bir beyefendinin boyle konusmasi belki gulunc gelecek:Delice askin butun belirtileri vardi bende,ama kelime bir turlu gelmiyordu.Sanirim boyle anlarda sizinle alay ederek hatta kotu niyetle bile olsa 'asik' kelimesini telaffuz edecek bir sirdas lazimdir.

you cannot love, what use is the rising and the setting of the sun?

The grey steel streets were indeed paltry (not our feelings, and no, not the blues) but those gray streets were dead and cold, despite our warm living selves celebrating the life in us dancing across their surfaces.

When Van Gogh painted The Starry Night as a swirling mass of cosmic energy, he may have been painting what he saw with neurotic eyes, but he was also painting what he saw with transcendent eyes. The first gave his painting mere form, the second gave it formless, universal emotion that connects directly to the viewer.

The nostalgia I had come to treasure was a hypertrophied sense of the past as a place, a place with street signs and a figure atop a staircase that I recognized.

Fatigue overtakes me, and a grief so concentrated I swim in it. A grief that makes my arms heavy. A grief that makes my back slump. A grief that makes me close my eyes. I want to sleep like the unborn and the dead. I want to sleep so deeply that I see him again. I want to confront him. Who were you? I want to say. Why do you talk to me now? I want to shake his inert body. But what's the use? Our losses will never be done with us. They have endless patience.

There can be funny moments during sad stories

Anger is the resentment of the animal, and gentle blood alone makes the gentleman.

Wherever comes man comes tragedy and comedy also.

Almost everyone traverses their lifespan, from birth to death, with eyes closed. Even you and I, my dear Shmuel. With eyes closed. If we open our eyes for just a moment, a great and terrible cry will burst forth from us and we shall scream and never stop. And if we don't cry out day and night, that's a sign that our eyes are closed.

Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.

I do not say what I feel, and people often take that for shyness, even kindness.

We live and we love the world, Lillian thinks, and we kid ourselves that the world loves us back.