Quotes About Emotion

He rubs his forehead, frustrated, then raises his eyes, one dark brown, one gray-blue—the

She's sweet on Wagner. I think she'd die for Beethoven. she loves the way Puccini lays down a tune, and Verdi's always creeping from her room.

He was going through one of those moments that you read about in books, when a character reacts in an unexpectedly extreme way to the normal discontents of living.

We consummate life and lose it because in some long-ago time someone, in the desire to unload his cock inside us, was nice, chose us among women. We take for some sort of kindness addressed to us alone the banal desire for sex. We love his desire to fuck, we are so dazzled by it we think it's the desire to fuck only us, us alone. Oh yes, he who is so special and who has recognized us as special. We give it a name, that desire of the cock, we personalize it, we call it my love.

Maybe I should tell her that things without a meaning are the most beautiful ones

I felt that there was no irony, it was a real compliment. Then she added with sudden harshness: "I don't want to read anything else that you write." "Why?" She thought about it. "Because it hurts me," and she struck her forehead with her hand and burst out laughing.

I feel ugly, like I'm a bad person, and yet I'd like to be loved.

in his view love ended only when it was possible to return to oneself without fear or disgust

Esistere è questo, pensai, un sussulto di gioia, una fitta di dolore, un piacere intenso, vene che pulsano sotto la pelle, non c'è nient'altro di vero da raccontare.

Beautiful writing becomes beautiful when it loses its harmony and has the desperate power of the ugly.

I'm laughing, I apologized, at the situation, at you, who've wanted to kill Nino forever, and at me, who if he showed up now would say to you: Yes, kill him. I'm laughing out of despair, because I've never been so offended, because I feel humiliated in a way that I don't know if you can imagine, because at this moment I'm so ill that I think I'm fainting.

I'm never going to fall in love with anyone and I will never ever ever write a poem.' 'I don't believe it.' 'It's true.' 'But people will fall in love with you.' 'Worse for them.

I cried and cried, as if I had carelessly lost somewhere the most promising part of myself.

A tangle of resentments, the sense of revenge, the need to test the humiliated power of my body were burning up any residue of good sense.

La prima volta che ho visto Enzo è stato a una festa da ballo e abbiamo ballato questo ballo qui" la sentii dire. "Quanto tempo fa?" "Questo 23 maggio diciassette anni." ââ'¬Å"È passato molto tempo." "Non è passato nemmeno un minuto.

She became transparent skin over bones, her eyes drowning in violet wells, her hands damp spider webs.

When she gave me back the notebook, she said, 'You're very clever, of course they always give you ten.' I felt that there was no irony, it was a real compliment. Then she added with sudden harshness: 'I don't want to read anything else that you write.' 'Why?' She thought about it. 'Because it hurts me,' and she struck her forehead with her hand and burst out laughing.

One April afternoon, right after lunch, my husband announced that he wanted to leave me.

The girl, perhaps without even realizing it, and who knows for how long, had been assessing the power of her swaying body, her restless eyes, on my husband; and he looked at her as one looks from a gray area at a white wall struck by the sun.

I wanted him to see in that plate of pasta everything that, by leaving, he would no longer be able to look at, or touch, or caress, listen to, smell: never again.

Are you seeing him?" he asked indifferently. I laughed, a kind of sob.

It was as if, because of an evil spell, the joy or sorrow of on required the sorrow or joy of the other; even our physical aspect, it seemed to me, shared in that swing.

Is it possible that in all those years she left me nothing of herself, or, worse, that I didn't want to keep anything of her? It is. This

El amor no solo no tiene ojos, sino que también le faltan los oídos