Quotes About Emotion

The thing that willed up inside me wasn't words, exactly. It was…notes, music. A pattern of sounds, or perhaps it would be more accurate to liken it to the recalled memory of sounds, arranged into a pleasing and harmonious whole. As Singer had described it-a song.

It takes more than blood and iron to wound me.

Shared breath brought tumbling memories, salty bittersweet jewels.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the poetry as he leaned into the cloths that bound him, and his lips moved slightly.

Red ran through my fingers, dripping to the white, white stone.

The twist of her mouth revealed what she thought of that idea. It made Lisa restrain a smile: it was also Katya's moue, and Lisa's son Julian made the same face when he was concentrating.

Morgan's face gave away nothing, smooth as a mirror.

Even now, Will realized he could sense Kit's movements with a lover's awareness. He wasn't sure if that comforted or troubled him, but he stepped closer because he could, and raised one hand to touch the hackled raven on his shoulder.

Somehow, the softness in her deep gray eyes was worse than censure or a Queen's cold wrath.

She hadn't really done anything to me physically. This was just what a broken heart felt like.

He squeezed Kit's elbow and felt Kit lean against him-not so much relaxing as seeking comfort and perhaps warmth, despite the way he almost flinched away from Will's steadying touch.

The idea made me sad. But it also felt like closure. And I badly needed some of that.

Pure in love, pure in attention, pure of heart. The other is no matter. Like thee and me, 'tis but a metaphor given flesh.

Sparks of sensation follow Michelangelo's hands as they cupped Vincent's skull and stroked his nape.

His voice held wonder and worry when he spoke at last.

Michelangelo leaned back, but his breath stayed warm on Vincent's cheek and Vincent didn't pull away.

My father's ambiguous smile swam before my eyes.

The Queen's voice had dropped, softened. Carel recognized it: the voice of the woman, not the Queen, unheard in seven years. In another circumstance, she might have found it beautiful.

He frowned at her now, studying her face-the sharp jaw and small nose, the high forehead over deep-set eyes, the architecture of pride and knowledge and competence that the sharpness of grief could not diminish.

I couldn't hold a thought. I couldn't accomplish a task without being distracted. And I couldn't keep my temper at all.

Whatever moved in Kit was vast and slow, a symphony of emotion that swelled from discord into something complex and bittersweet and whole.

Sebastien said nothing, but his lips burned with Jack's warmth as he shut the door behind himself and turned to face the stair.

She was old, and too worn thin to wonder. But oh, what a beautiful boy he was then.

Abby Irene smiled. And she did, Sebastien loved her, the brittle mortality and all its mad, fragile bravery.