Quotes About Emotion

His face is long and mournful, like a sheep's, but with the large full eyes of a dog, spaniel not terrier. His skin is pale and looks unwholesomely tender, like the skin under a scab.

It's her second baby, she had another child, once, I know that from the Center, when she used to cry about it at night, like the rest of us only more noisily. So she ought to be able to remember this, what it's like, what's coming. 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.

the thing was airborne. Desire and fear were universal, between them they'd been the gravediggers.

Is that all there is? they must be thinking. Shouldn't it be less ordinary, more sordid, more epic, more truly harrowing, this flesh wound of your? Tell us more! Couldn't we please crank up the pain?

We hugged her to us, she was with us in secret, a giggle; she was lava beneath the crust of daily life.

Love was its own transparent bubble-dome: you could see the two inside it, but you couldn't get in there yourself. That

Yes, good, kind Crake. I will stop telling this story if you sing. Because it makes me forget what I am telling.

The more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. We were waiting, always, for the incarnation. That word, made flesh. And sometimes it happened, for a time. 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

Poems are made of words. They aren't boxes. They aren't houses. Nobody is in them, really.

Nothing's broken, nevertheless I'm skinless, the gentlest touch would gut me.

Nothing is ever settled," says Jocelyn. "Every day is different. Isn't it better to do something because you've decided to? Rather than because you have to?" "No, it isn't," says Charmaine. "Love isn't like that. With love, you can't stop yourself." She wants the helplessness, she wants…

What would that be like - to long, to yearn for someone who is right there before your eyes, day in and day out?

Mitch looks in her direction. He can't meet her eyes. It's as if she's semi-invisible, a kind of hovering blur.

B?rak?yorum, aks?n gözyaÅŸlar?m. Olan bu, aÄŸlama deÄŸil. Bir sandalyede oturup bir sünger gibi su s?zd?r?yorum.

The SanctuCare women went over and welcomed them and said, "You're here now, it's all right," and the Gilead women started to cry. At the time I thought, Why cry, you should be happy, you got out. But after all that's happened to me since that day, I understand why. You hold it in, whatever it is, until you can make it through the worst part. Then, once you're safe, you can cry all the tears you couldn't waste time crying before.

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

you occupy me so completely run through my brain as warm chemicals and melted gold, spread out wings to the ends of my fingers reach my heart and stop, digging your claws in

Hungry, and also sad. Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.

Lately he's been treating her like white noise, like the rivulet sound on their sleep machine. This would once have hurt her Ã¢â'¬â€œ did hurt her Ã¢â'¬â€œ but now it suits her fine. She

I knew his hug was acting, but at that moment I didn't care. I really did feel almost as if he was my first boyfriend. It wasn't much, but it was something.

It's astonishing how folks can get so worked up over something that doesn't exist.

My letters! All dead paper, mute and white! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string.… —ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, Sonnets from the Portuguese, 1850.

no matter what I do there's something hilarious about it. He wanted me to play Scrabble with him, and kiss him as if I meant it.

The girls in the stories make such fools of themselves. They are so weak. They fall helplessly in love with the wrong men, they give in, they are jilted. Then they cry.