Quotes About Emotion

Love-real love-can't be defined. It just is.

No, it can't," I say. "It's— it's the kind of thing you want to say, that you want to believe, but it isn't— I know isn't true. I thought my heart knew things, but what I thought was real turned out to be a lie, and now I don't—

I want to care, but I don't.

I know I should say he suddenly seemed vulnerable and I felt a connection to his soul or whatever, but the truth is I just wanted to tackle him and then make out for the next three thousand years.

If she could breathe then it could be heard, but she was breathless.

I see it in his eyes, he has eyes you can see everything in, and I say, "Morgan," my voice as quiet as the ghost I am supposed to be.

I lied to Julia, I didn't know what else to do because you - you make me feel..." I had to stop. Not because I didn't have words. I did. But I was afraid to say them. He looked at me, and I knew then I could love him. That if I let myself I would. "You make me feel too," he said, and held out one hand.

A pen is a furious weapon. But it needs a rage of will.

Making the decision to have a child--it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

Oh, gosh, Olive. I'm so embarrassed." "No need to be," Olive tells her. "We all want to kill someone at some point." (179)

Each of his son's had been his favorite child.

Hope was a cancer inside him. He didn't want it; he did not want it. He could not bear these shoots of tender green hope springing up within him any longer. (45)

She always played his song because whenever she saw him, it was like moving into a warm pocket of air.

But once in a while I see a child crying with the deepest of desperation, and I think it is one of the truest sounds a child can make.

Grief is such a—oh, it is such a solitary thing; this is the terror of it, I think. It is like sliding down the outside of a really long glass building while nobody sees you.

The year that followed - was it the happiest year of his own life? He often thought so, even knowing that such a thing was foolish to claim about any year of one's life: but in his memory, that particular year held the sweetness of a time that contained no thoughts of a beginning and no thoughts of an end..

And I also understood: Grief is a private thing. God, is it a private thing.

there's not one goddamn person in this world who doesn't have a bad memory or two to take with them through life.

she feels her stomach turn choppy, whitecaps in her stomach.

I like these experts because they seem decent, and because I feel I know a true sentence when I hear one now. They do not know what my mother remembered. I don't know what my mother remembered either.

Women grieve, and men replace.

An ache stayed inside her. And a faint reverberating hum of something close to joy lived on the outer edges of her memory, some kind of longing that had been answered once and was simply not answered anymore.

Loss is an assault; a certain exhaustion, as strong as the pull of the moon on the tides, needs to be allowed for eventually.