Quotes About Emotion

Your story is a symphony, not a note.

Emotional labor is the hard work of making art, producing generosity, and exposing creativity. Working without a map involves both vision and the willingness to do something about what you see. Emotional labor is what you get paid to do, and one of the most difficult types of emotional labor is staring into the abyss of choice and picking a path.

It's not an effort contest, it's an art contest. As customers, we care about ourselves, about how we feel, about whether a product or service or play or interaction changed us for the better. Where it's made or how it's made or how difficult it was to make is sort of irrelevant. That's why emotional labor is so much more valuable than physical labor. Emotional labor changes the recipient, and we care about that. Soft

Selling is about a transference of emotion, not a presentation of facts. If it were just a presentation of facts, then a PDF flyer or a Web site would be sufficient to make the phone ring.

They want the way it will make them feel.

Art isn't only a painting. Art is anything that's creative, passionate, and personal. And great art resonates with the viewer, not only with the creator.

If you are making a decision based on how you feel at that moment, you will probably make the wrong decision.

Just as no one needs a drill bit, no one needs a real estate broker. What they need and want is how it makes them feel to get what a broker can get them.

3. Here's a gift, I love you.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

He kills her in her own humor.

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?

Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.

She has vowed never to love: and that vow means I must endure a living death.

What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.

The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75

Something inside his chest unlocked--wildly, slowly, a peculiar sort of melting. He was lost. He was the thorn and the thistle, blown upon her breeze. He felt, strangely enough, staring into her yes, like he was going to weep.

He mouthed the words to her that she could not see, and that she could not hear. It was all he dared tonight, strangers in a castle, strangers to this land, their future a great black question mark and an ending he could not foresee. He bent his lips to her ear and said without breathe: Lia-heart. Little dragon. I love you too.

I lay in my bed and tried not to miss him, to miss the entire experience of him. I wanted to feel the shape of him beside me. I wanted him to touch my hair. To kiss me, long and velvety slow.

I would not attempt to guess at the nature of true love, except to say that when I was immersed in it—swimming through it, breathing it in, holding that breath, exhaling—in those short, extraordinary days and nights I shared with your father, true love was absolutely clear to me. Jack was clear to me. Jack was me, and I was him, and you, sweet child, are now us both.

The black thing inside her enlarged, choking, closing her throat. She turned back to Jack.

All three of us together, locked in love for that blink of a moment in time.