Quotes About Emotion

The artist has a duty to be calm. He has no right to show his emotion, his involvement, to go pouring it all out at the audience. Any excitement over a subject must be sublimated into an Olympian calm of form. That is the only way in which an artist can tell of the things that excite him.

Heard the St. Matthew Passion at the Cathedral. Marvellous.

Because a real kiss, a kiss that two real people choose to give each other - it's something that can't be filmed or photographed or drawn, or even described with words. Because a kiss isn't what it looks like or how it feels. A real kiss happens down deep inside of two hearts at the same time. It's hidden away. A real kiss is invisible.

We both hang up, but it's like there's still a connection. I can feel it. And it feels good.

The thing to remember is that the skull is fixed in position, and, with the exception of the jaw, immovable, and that the flesh is mobile and ever-changing, and also affected by health, emotion, and age. After the skull is fully matured, it remains the same through life and is a structural foundation for the varying appearance of the flesh.

Poems are a hotline to our hearts, and we forget this emotional power at our peril.

I know I'm out of your life / But the day that I die / I know you are going to cry.

It is almost another kind of love, being loved. It is the same heat but from another room; it is the same sound but from a high window...

Either Less is an asshole, or the heart is a capricious thing.

What Frank wrote: It's a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything in the world.

meaning his stuffed bear who was as real to him as his mother or me. Or else as imaginary.

We are each the love of someone's life --- The Confessions of Max Tivoli

Because to love someone ridiculous is to understand something deep and true about the world. That up close it makes no sense.

We have no heart at seventeen. We think we do; we think we have been cursed with a holy, bloated thing that twitches at the name we adore, but it is not a heart because though it will forfeit anything in the world-the mind, the body, the future, even the last lonely hour it has-it will not sacrifice itself.

He kisses — how do I explain it? Like someone in love. Like he has nothing to lose. Like someone who has just learned a foreign language and can use only the present tense and only the second person. Only now, only you. There are some men that have never been kissed like that there are some men who discover after Arthur Less, that they never will be again.

The moment holds neither disappointment nor delight. Realizing we are no longer in love is not the heartbreaking sensation we imagine when we are in love—because it is no sensation at all. It is a realization made by a bystander.

And Less feels it swelling up within him, the phrase he does not want to say and yet, somehow, by the cruel checkmate logic of conversation, is compelled to say: "Thank you.

No one has ever been hopelessly in love with me." "No," Carlos says. "You always gave them hope, didn't you?

I know I'm out of your life / But the day that I die / I know you are going to cry

HE WAS NOT THE BEST BUT HE WAS THE BEST I EVER HAD

How can so many things become a bore by middle age—philosophy, radicalism, and other fast foods—but heartbreak keeps its sting?

You cannot call it a guilty pleasure when the lights go down and the curtain goes up, when the adolescent heart begins to beat along with the orchestra, not when you feel no guilt. And

It's easy to say something is all in your head. It's like saying a sunset is all in your eyes, she said, gesturing, pursing her mouth in small furies. It's stupid, it's nonsense. It has no brain for beauty.

It feels possible that memory will never be finished with this moment. Then they step apart.