Quotes About Emotion

A person doesn't ask permission to fall in love; not even of themselves.

I have a knife in my hand, slicing beef on the willowware plate, and I cut harder, faster, thinking it is your pink neck under my blade and I am cutting you into little pieces that I will bury in the meadow outside when there is no moon.

I wasn't frightened. I was just afraid." Her aunt smiled. "Is there a difference?" "Oh yes," Eleanor said. "When you're frightened you run away. When you're afraid you keep on doing what you're supposed to do.

You can never know enough about your characters." —W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.

But then he touched the flowers With the dry tips of his fingers. "Tell me how men kiss you. Tell me how you kiss.

I'm not weeping, I'm not complaining, Happiness is not for me.

We will not drink from the same cup - Neither water nor sweet wine is ours, We will not kiss as the sun goes up Or gaze at the night, on the sill, for hours. I breathe by the moon, you – by the sun

No one else was as close and as open, No one else so boiled my blood, Even he, who consigned me to torment, Even he, who caressed and forgot.

But I am not allowed to forget The taste of the tears of yesterday.

Let love be the gravestone Lying on my life.

Once taken by her, you glowed And you drank her poisons, content. Because all the stars seemed to grow, And fields had a different scent, Autumn fields.

A town loved with bitter love.

True Tenderness" True tenderness is silent and can't be mistaken for anything else. In vain with earnest desire you cover my shoulders with fur; In vain you try to persuade me of the merits of first love. But I know too well the meaning of your persistent burning glances.

I live like a cuckoo in a clock, I'm not jealous of the forest birds. They wind me up—and I cuckoo. You know—such a fate I could only wish For someone I hate.

Half-closes her eyes — eyelids heavy with poems.

Whether to look for you on earth -- I don't know if you're dead or you live -- Or about you in the evening I should for you, departed, grieve. All is for you: and the daily prayer And the sleeplessness' swooning flame And the white flock of my poems And my eyes' blue violent flame. No one was dearer to me, no one, No one left me this bereft, Not even he who betrayed me to torment, Not even he who caressed, then left.

He never asks for endearment, all quiet, Only gazes at me all the time, And he bears with a blissful smile This distressing oblivion of mine.

Let love become the gravestone That lies upon my life.

And just how many city skylines Could have evoked my tears, But I know just one city in the world, And I can find it, blindfolded, in a dream.

Yellow and fresh are the lanterns, Black is the road of the garden at sea. I am very calm. Only please, do not Talk about him with me. You're tender and loyal, we'll be friends. . Have fun, kiss, together grow old. . And light months above us will fly like feathers, Like stars made of snow and as cold.

Can you describe this?" And I said: "I can." Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.

Oh, how often you'll remember The sudden pain of unnamed longing — Anna Akhmatova, from "I'll erase this day from your memory," trans. A. S. Kline, White Flock (Hyperborea, 1917)

No sadness, my soul's no more of this world.