Quotes About Emotion

Happy as a clam, is what my mother says for happy. I am happy as a clam: hard-shelled, firmly closed.

You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter . I want to be with someone.

Neither of us says the word love, not once. It would be tempting fate; it would be romance, bad luck.

If I thought this would never happen again I would die. But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

Tell me where it hurts, she'd say. Stop howling. Just calm down and show me where. But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.

he might die for her, but living for her would be quite different.

Madness is only an amplification of what you already are.

I'm not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me - drawing on my skin - not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

Karen wasn't hard, she was soft, too soft. A soft touch. Her hair was soft, her smile was soft, her voice was soft. She was so soft there was no resistance. Hard things sank into her, they went right through her, and if she made a real effort, out the other side. Then she didn't have to see them or hear them, or even touch them.

If you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart.

She had no images of this love. She could offer no anecdotes. It was a belief rather than a memory.

Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!

Screw poetry, it's you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin.

Your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words.

You can't keep a cool head when you're drowning in love. You just thrash around a lot and scream, and wear yourself out.

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

Lose your temper and you lose the fight.

She stubs out her cigarette in the brown glass ashtray, then settles herself against him, ear to his chest. She likes to hear his voice this way, as if it begins not in his throat but in his body, like a hum or a growl, or like a voice speaking from deep underground. Like the blood moving through her own heart: a word, a word, a word.

His mouth is on me, his hands, I can't wait and he's moving, already, love, it's been so long, I'm alive in my skin, again, arms around him, falling and water softly everywhere, never-ending.

If you were a song What song would you be? Would you be the voice that sings, Would you be the music? When I am singing this song for you You are not empty air You are here, One breath and then another: You are here with me...

and nostalgia swept through Jimmy like a sudden hunger.

It's better to hope than mope!

So that's what art is, for the artist," said Crake. "An empty drainpipe. An amplifier. A stab at getting laid.