Quotes About Emotion

It made him feel invisible—not that he wanted to feel anything else.

But something had shifted, some balance. I felt shrunken, so that when he put his arms around me, gathering me up, I was as small as a doll. I felt love going forward without me.

I have them, these attacks of the past, like faintness, a wave sweeping over my head.

Fear is a powerful stimulant.

The stains on the mattress. Like dried flower petals. Not recent. Old love; there's no other kind of love in this room now.

It's lack of love we die from.

She gives him an LED smile: light, but no heat.

her face might be kindly if she would smile

February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre.

But it's love that does us in.

I can't believe in my own sadness, I can't take it seriously. I watch myself crying in the mirror, intrigued by the sight of tears.

Would I laugh? Matter of fact, you would, says Zeb. Heart like shale. What you need is a good fracking.

Whoever cares the most will lose.

Only a girl like this can know what's happened to you. If she were here she would reach out her arms towards you now, and touch you with her absent hands and you would feel nothing, but you would be touched all the same.

Suddenly revenge is so close he can actually taste it. It tastes like steak, rare.

gazing down at the black water remembering all the stories of women who had thrown themselves into it. They'd done it for love, because that was the effect love had on you. It snuck up on you, it grabbed hold of you before you knew it, and then there was nothing you could do. Once you were in it- in love- you would be swept away, regardless. Or so the books had it.

I feel my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.

Do you love me, that's all, he said. That's the only thing that matters. It was the language again, I couldn't use it because it wasn't mine. He must have known what he meant but it was an imprecise word; the Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them, there ought to be as many for love.

Perhaps he was merely being friendly. Perhaps he saw the look on my face and mistook it for something else. Really what I wanted was the cigarette.

Today she wears her habitual expression of strained anxiety; she smells of violets.

Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. This word is not enough but it will have to do. It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside. You can hold on or let go.

This form of love is like the pain of childbirth: so intense it's hard to remember afterwards

So that made me happy but the part that really made me happy was that you wanted me to be happy. That's what Thank you means.

I would like to say my hair turned white overnight, but it didn't. Instead it was my heart: bleached out like meat in water