Quotes About Emotion

Is love then, that madness I *want*?

M? interesez de limbaj pentru c? m? r?ne?te sau m? seduce.

The lover's discourse is usually a smooth envelope which encases the Image, a very gentle glove around the loved being.

Here and there, on the trees, some leaves remain. And I often stand deep in thought before them. I contemplate a leaf and attach my hope to it. When the wind plays with the leaf, I tremble in every limb. And if it should fall, alas, my hope falls with it. - Schubert

Ce que cache mon langage, mon corps le dit» Roland Barthes (Fragments d'un discours amoureux)

mad I cannot be, sane I do not deign to be, neurotic I am.

The photograph touches me if I withdraw it from its usual blah-blah: "Technique," "Reality," "Reportage," "Art," etc.: to say nothing, to shut my eyes, to allow the detail to rise of its own accord into affective consciousness.

Endlessly I sustain the discourse of the beloved's absence; actually a preposterous situation; the other is absent as referent, present as allocutory. The singular distortion generates a kind of insupportable present; I am wedged between two tenses, that of the reference and that of the allocution: you have gone (which I lament), you are here (since I am addressing you). Whereupon I know what the present, that difficult tense is: a pure portion of anxiety.

Embarrassed and almost quickly because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion. But all my life haven't I been just that: moved?

the amorous subject wonders, not whether he should declare his love to the loved being,..., but to what degree he should conceal the turbulences of his passion, his desires, his distresses: in short, his excesses.

Every contact, for the lover, raises the question of an answer: the skin is asked to reply.

Embarrassed and almost guilty because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion. But all my life haven't I been just that: moved?

One writes with one's desire, and I am not through desiring.

Like the Roman fringe or the nocturnal plait, sweat is a sign. Of what? Of moral feeling. Everyone is sweating because everyone is debating something within himself.

Love's atopia, characteristic which causes it to escape all dissertations, would be that *ultimately* it is possible to talk about love only *according to a strict allocutive determination*; whether philosophical, gnomic, lyric, or novelistic, there is always, in the discourse upon love, a person whom one addresses, though this person may have shifted to the condition of a phantom or a creature still to come. No one wants to speak of love unless it is *for* someone.).

el miedo es a la vez lo que está "en el origen de todo", una parodia del cogito cartesiano: "Tengo miedo, luego vivo"– y

I take a role: *I am the one who is going to cry; and I play this role for myself *and it makes me cry* I am my own theater.

The difficulty of the amorous project is in this: Just show me who to love then get out of my way! Countless episodes in which I fall in love with someone loved by my best friend: every rival has first been a master, a guide, a barker, a mediator.

Every passion, ultimately, has its spectator...no oblation without a final theater: the sign is always victorious.

I want you to know that I don't want to show my feelings; that is the message I address to the other...I advance pointing to my mask.

3 de abril de 1978 Desesperación: la palabra es demasiado teatral, forma parte del lenguaje. Una piedra.

It was probably at this point that a pregnant Eliza first smiled and shook hands with her husband's future executioner.

Wars oftener proceed from angry and perverse passions than from cool calculations of interest.

He would smile at times, but I never heard him laugh aloud," said Louisa Boggs. "He was a sad man . . . he seemed almost in despair."124 Grant seemed to be staring into an abyss. "I don't think he saw a light ahead—not a particle. I don't think he had any ambition further than to educate and take care of his family.