Quotes About Emotion

She thought I was impossible, but she loved me anyway, which is the best sort of love there is.

In that instant he saw everything there was to know about love. It terrified and humbled him and made him realize how little he knew.

Snow made him feel like crying sometimes-just the first flakes, the purest stuff.

He told me he wanted the chance to be in love again. He has no idea that being in love is bullshit. It's knowing someone down to their soul that matters. That's what love is. It's difficult and it's real and it doesn't change.

Everything she loved had already happened and had already been.

I had swallowed my share of bitterness, but a portion had stuck in my throat and turned to rage.

The fact that she's the high point of someone's life is pathetic. She's probably never loved her mother more than she does at this moment. Maybe she didn't even know what love was before today.

When you fall in love like that, time doesn't matter. This was the secret he told Maria, the last words he ever said.

we saw the edges of one another's souls.

Love could ruin your life or set you free; it could happen by chance or be a well-planned decision.

She paused, her eyes joyous, her lips pursed, her cheeks drawn in, as if the piece of news were butterscotch in her mouth. "Adele was crying," she added, only mouthing the words, or only speaking them with a breathless wheeze in place of where the words might have been. "Crying." She pantomimed, dragging her own manicured finger down her cheek.

The wind," Mary said again. "It was making everyone tear up.

There wasn't a tear to be seen on the faces of the men and women in the street as the two of them walked down to Schrafft's. Only him, again, leaning by the door, suit jacket and fedora, the sunlight striking gold, the leg he had favored bent back and pressed against the building. He was smoking a cigarette. He was the handsomest man on the block. He was waiting for her. She felt Pauline beside her

There wasn't a tear to be seen on the faces of the men and women in the street as the two of them walked down to Schrafft's. Only him, again, leaning by the door, suit jacket and fedora, the sunlight striking gold, the leg he had favored bent back and pressed against the building. He was smoking a cigarette. He was the handsomest man on the block. He was waiting for her.

Mary Keane watched her daughter and felt as well the punch and turn of the baby not yet born and saw the similarity of the mystery of them both—the baby unseen, moving an elbow or a foot, the means to an end all its own, unfathomable; her daughter with the unseen life playing like reflected light over her face, her lips moving in a conversation forever unheard.

All joy was thin ice to Sister Lucy.

His eyes were teary from the wind, red-rimmed and bloodshot. His nose was running and there were tears on his windblown cheeks. She

There was the ache in his heart, and now over his shoulder and down his arm, as

The windshield wipers were like a new beat in the day's rhythm. Mary

They recount their earliest memories without any sympathy for the child they once were

Cruelty is the opposite of love, and its traumatic effect, far from being reduced, is actually reinforced if it is presented as a sign of love.

Love and cruelty are mutually exclusive. No one ever slaps a child out of love but rather because in similar situations, when one was defenseless, one was slapped and then compelled to interpret it as a sign of love.

And now such a warm commotion, such busy love.

And at the end of his letter one terrible sentence. 'If I loved you I would have written differently.