Quotes About Emotion

Now she said, "I'm up to the four-letter words." And I said, "You mean the dirty ones, like shit?" And she laughed and said, "Worse ones than that." And I said, "You mean the c-word and the f-word?" and she said, "No. Like love.

But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.

there is something in your throat that wants to get out and you won't let it.

He's coming to hate the gratitude of women. It is like being fawned on by rabbits, or like being covered with syrup: you can't get it off.

there are some things that do not fare well in high definition.

All I can hear now is the sound of my own heart, opening and closing, opening and closing, opening

She had loved him, uselessly.

There was always an element of melancholy involved in sex. After his indiscriminate adolescence he'd preferred sad women, delicate and breakable, women who'd been messed up and who needed him.

When it came to love, wasn't believing the same as the real thing?

All hearts float in their own deep oceans of no light, wetblack and glimmering, their four mouths gulping like fish. Hearts are said to pound: this is to be expected, the heart's regular struggle against being drowned.

It would be nice to believe that love should be dished out in a fair way so that everyone got some. But that wasn't how it was going to be for me.

But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.

Having experienced both, I am not sure which is worse: intense feeling or the absence of it.

The poems that used to entrance me in the days of Miss Violence now struck me as overdone and sickly. Alas, burthen, thine, cometh, aweary —the archaic language of unrequited love. I was irritated with such words, which rendered the unhappy lovers—I could now see—faintly ridiculous, like poor moping Miss Violence herself. Soft-edged, blurry, soggy, like a bun fallen into the water. Nothing you'd want to touch

Alcohol's a depressant, it will let me down later.

The more it hurt, the more – he was convinced – he loved her.

That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done;

because that was the effect love had on you. It snuck up on you, grabbed hold of you before you know 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.

He has been trying to sing Love into existence again And he has failed.

quién puede recordar el dolor una vez que éste ha desaparecido? Todo lo que queda de él es una sombra, ni siquiera en la mente o en la carne. El dolor deja una marca demasiado profunda para que se vea, una marca que queda fuera del alcance de la vista y de la mente.

But who can remember pain, once its over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see.

The bathrobe was magenta, a colour that still makes him anxious whenever he sees it.

In the moment just before giving, I am loved.

He wanted me to play Scrabble with him, and kiss him as if I meant it.