Quotes About Emotion

The words are vessels that are filled with experience that overflows the vessels. The words point to an experience; they are not the experience. The moment that I express what I experience exclusively in thought and words, the experience has gone: it has dried up, is dead, a mere thought. Hence being is indescribable in words and is communicable only by sharing my experience.

Solo l'amore disinteressato è un sentimento maturo, completo.

The ability to love depends on one's capacity to emerge from narcissism

L'atto sessuale senza amore non riempie mai il baratro che divide due creature umane, se non in modo assolutamente momentaneo.

L'amore è un sentimento attivo, non passivo; è una conquista, non una resa.

Worte sind Gefäße, die wir mit Erlebnissen füllen, doch diese quellen über das Gefäß hinaus.

Love is not primarily caused by a specific object, but a lingering quality in a person which is only actualized by a certain object.

Ä°deoloji, doÄŸas? gereÄŸi etkin düÅŸünceye de, etkin duyguya da çekici gelmez. Ä°nsan? ya heyecanland?ran ya da uyutan hap gibidir. Hitler, Mein Kampfda (Kavgam'da) halk? toplay?p galeyana getirmek için en elveriÅŸli zaman?n, insanlar?n yorgun ve etkilenmeye aç?k olduÄŸu akÅŸam saatleri olduÄŸunu söylerken bu noktay? aç?kça gördüÄŸünü belirtiyordu.

In the experience of love lies the only answer to being human, lies sanity.

Ich habe geweint, weil ich dich liebhabe. Aber dass ich dich liebhabe, das ist meine Sache, hörst du? Und es geht dich nichts an.

She was very beautiful and he felt he loved her. She was not beautiful as a state or a picture is beautiful; she was beautiful as a meadow across which the wind blows. It was life that pulsed in her and that had formed her into what she was.

Sre?a, kad je doživljujemo, nikad nije potpuna. Tek u sje?anju postaje potpuna...

Be meil?s žmogus - tik atostogaujantis lavonas.

It is a strange thing that all the memories have these two qualities. They are always full of quietness, that is the most striking thing about them; and even when things weren't like that in reality, they still seem to have that quality. They are soundless apparitions, which speak to me by looks and gestures, wordless and silent—and their silence is precisely what disturbs me.

Stebuklas, kai j? patiri, niekuomet n?ra pilnas, tik atmintis padaro j? tokiu.

Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins become brimstone.

But I also knew that there was no going back. One can never go back; nothing and no one is ever the same. All that remained was an occasional evening of sadness, the sadness that we all feel because everything passes and because man is the only animal who knows it.

Terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks; - but it kills, if a man thinks about it.

and without love, one is a dead man on furlough, nothing but a scrap of paper with a few dates and a chance name on it, and we as well die.

We were never very demonstrative in our family; poor folk who toil and are full of cares are not so. It is not their way to protest what they already know. When my mother says to me dear boy, it means much more than when another uses it.

If only they would not look at one so-What great misery can be in two such small spots, no bigger than a man's thumb-in their eyes!

But you will understand me anyways, even without words. Everything is so new to me that I cannot express it; I didn't know that my breathe could love, that my nails could love, that even my death could love. And I don't care how much it will last, or whether I can hold it or not, or whether I will be able to express it properly.

J?s smaid?t. Un esat tik mier?gs. K?p?c j?s nebr?cat? - Es br?cu. Tikai j?s to nedzirdat.

Once I fall fast asleep. Then wakening suddenly with a start I do not know where I am. I see the stars, I see the rockets, and for a moment have the impression that I have fallen asleep at a garden fête. I don't know whether it is morning or evening, I lie in the pale cradle of the twilight, and listen for soft words which will come, soft and near—am I crying? I put my hand to my eyes, it is fantastic, am I a child?