Quotes About Emotion

Love, I find, is like singing. Everybody can do it enough to impress themselves, though it may not impress the neighbors as being very much.

Bitterness is the coward's revenge on the world for having been hurt.

No hour is ever eternity, but it has its right to weep.

One of my theories is that men love with their eyes women love with their ears.

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. That's what I wanted.

There was sex, of course. Nakedness. Wall to wall, in and out of my thoughts. But when it was over it was her whispering voice I craved, and a human curled up in my arms.

Whatever a woman's reason may say, her feelings tell her the truth.

Ah, how fatefully swift is the move from one feeling to another.

It is the way of youth that each fresh piece of knowledge of life should go to its head, and that once uplifted by an emotion it can never have enough of it.

Love takes captive and puts the apprehended in custody; it makes an arrest, for the prisoner's protection.

La naturaleza del amor implica —tal como lo observó Lucano dos milenios atrás y lo repitió Francis Bacon muchos siglos más tarde— ser un rehén del destino.

Can one remember the words uttered in the first moment of meeting between a mother and son, husband and wife, or lover and lover? The simplest, most ordinary, even ridiculous words are said, if they were put down exactly upon paper. But each word is opportune and infinitely dear because it is uttered by the dearest voice in all the world.

Infatuation is the inciting incident. Maybe it goes somewhere, maybe it doesn't, but you can't have a story without it. Love is the story itself, the thing we carry with us after the mountains are gone.

Who else but a lover retains the ability to wound the other person with such passion, such precision? And who else but that lover has the capacity to heal what he or she has done?

Some people care too much. I think it's called love.

How do you spell 'love'? - Piglet You don't spell it...you feel it. - Pooh

Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.

I don't feel very much like Pooh today, said Pooh. There there, said Piglet. I'll bring you tea and honey until you do.

No — other men's eye's don't do anything for me, I'm afraid. Sulu grinned.

You came one day and as usual in such matters significance filled everything- your eyes, the things you knew, the way you turned, leaned, stood, or sat, this way or that.

I can't tell you where a poem comes from, what it is, or what it is for: nor can any other. The reason I can't tell you is that the purpose of a poem is to go past telling, to be recognized by burning. from A Poem is a Walk, Epoch 18 (Fall 1968): 114-19.

Should I draw you the picture of my heart it would be what I hope you would still love though it contained nothing new. The early possession you obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied.

Deliver me from your cold phlegmatic preachers, politicians, friends, lovers and husbands.

But we don't get to choose what sticks. How many times I have run my fingers along a picket fence and thought, This! I will remember this moment always! and all that remains is the memory of a desire to hold on to a memory.