Quotes About Emotion

Multipliquei-me para me sentir.

And I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.

I had come from wondrous lands, from landscapes more enchanting than life, but only to myself did I ever mention these lands, and I said nothing about the landscapes which I saw in dreams. My feet stepped like theirs over the floorboards and the flagstones, but my heart was far away, even if it beat close by, false master of an estranged and exiled body.

Ricordo bene il suo sguardo. Attraversa ancora la mia anima Come una scia di fuoco nella notte. Ricordo bene il suo sguardo. Il resto… Sì, il resto è solo una parvenza di vita.

What is there to confess that's worthwhile or useful? What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it's no novelty, and if only to us, then it won't be understood. If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant

Amar é a eterna inocência, E a única inocência não pensar...

No-one loves another More than he loves whatever another within may have That is part of one's self

12. Se escrevo o que sinto é porque assim diminuo a febre de sentir. O que confesso não tem importância, pois nada tem importância Por: Bernado Soares In: Livro do Desassossego

My lack of initiative was the root cause of all my troubles - of my inability to want something before having thought about it, of my inability to commit myself, of my inability to decide in the only way one can decide: by deciding, not by thinking. I'm like Buridan's donkey, dying at the mathematical midpoint between the water of emotion and the hay of action; if I didn't think, I might still die, but it wouldn't be from thirst or hunger.

A Arte é, com efeito, o aperfeiçoamento subjectivo da vida.

Je me suis multiplié pour me sentir, Pour me sentir, j'ai eu besoin de tout ressentir; J'ai débordé, j'ai fini par me répandre

Futile and sensitive, I'm capable of violent and consuming impulses – both good and bad, noble and vile – but never of a sentiment that endures, never of an emotion that continues, entering into the substance of my soul. Everything in me tends to go on to become something else. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.

Every gesture is a dead dream.

Güte ist das Feingefühl roher Seelen.

We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept – our own selves – that we love.

And in the depths of my soul — the only reality of the moment — there is an intense, invisible pain, a sadness like the sound of someone weeping in a dark room.

Saudades, só portugueses Conseguem senti-las bem. Porque têm essa palavra Para dizer que as têm.

Chove. Que fiz eu da vida? Fiz o que ela fez de mim... De pensada, mal vivida... Triste de quem é assim!

I have always found my awareness of suffering more painful than the suffering itself.

Se escrevo o que sinto é porque assim diminuo a febre de sentir.

Does the peace I feel when I see you belong to you or to me?

I have an anguished, painful need to speak with you.

El corazón, si pudiese pensar, se pararía.

No soy nadie, nadie. No sé sentir, no sé pensar, no sé querer. Soy un personaje de novela por escribir, que pasa por el aire, deshecho sin haber existido, entre sueños de quien no me ha sabido formular.