Quotes About Feelings

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice

All letters of love are Ridiculous. They wouldn't be love letters if they were not Ridiculous.

Give to each emotion a personality, to each state of mind a soul.

In me all affections take place on the surface, but sincerely. I've always been an actor, and in earnest. Whenever I've loved, I've pretended to love, pretending it even to myself.

The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

What is there to confess that's worthwhile or useful? What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it's no novelty, and if only to us, then it won't be understood. If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant

Amar é a eterna inocência, E a única inocência não pensar...

The feeling of pain resembles the anguished, troubled height of convulsions, and suffering-the long and the slow kind-has the intimate yellow which colours the vague bliss of profoundly felt convalescence.

Every man of action is basically cheerful and optimistic, because those who don't feel are happy. You can spot a man of action by the fact he's never out of sorts.

How wearisome to let one's existence become something absolutely dependent on someone else's feelings; to have no option but to feel, to love a little too, whether or not it is reciprocated.

The nobleman thinks clearly, writes clearly, and controls his emotions, though not his feelings; the bookkeeper controls neither emotions nor feelings, and what he thinks depends on what he feels.

Children are particularly literary, for they say what they feel not what someone has taught them to feel.

Everything wearies me, even those things that don't. My joy is as painful as my grief.

This isn't the case with literature. Literature simulates life. A novel is a story of what never was, and a play is a novel without narration. A poem is the expression of ideas or feelings in a language no one uses, because no one talks in verse.

De tanto lidar com sombras, eu mesmo me converti numa sombra - no que penso, no que sinto, no que sou.

A minha alma era a mesma de sempre, entre lençóis como entre gente, dolorosamente consciente do mundo.

The world belongs to those who don't feel. The essential condition for being a practical man is the absence of sensibility.

I watch myself. I am a witness to myself. My feelings parade past some unrecognizable gaze of mine like things external. Everything about me bores me. Everything, right down to its mysterious roots, has taken on the color of my tedium.

Tal vez no tenga otro sueño que tú, tal vez sea en tus ojos, al pegar mi cara contra la tuya, cuando acabe por leer esos imposibles paisajes, esos tedios falsos, esos sentimientos que habitan la sombra de mi cansancio y las grutas de mis desasosiegos.

When art depended on solid construction and the careful observance of rules, few could attempt to be artists, and a fair number of these were quite good. But when art, instead of being understood as creation, became merely an expression of feelings, then anyone could be an artist, because everyone has feelings.

Não é esse o caso da literatura. Essa simula a vida. Um romance é uma história do que nunca foi. (...) Um poema é a expressão de ideias ou de sentimentos em linguagem que ninguém emprega, pois que ninguém fala em verso.

É tão difícil descrever o que se sente quando se sente que realmente se existe, e que a alma é uma entidade real, que não sei quais são as palavras humanas com que possa defini-lo.

Condillac begins his famous book with the words: "However high we climb and however low we fall we never escape our own feelings.

It's raining, and as if the rain had made them hunch forward, my feelings lower their stupid gaze to the ground, where water flows and nourishes nothing, washes nothing, cheers up nothing. It's raining, and I suddenly feel the terrible weight of being an animal that doesn't know what it is, dreaming its thought and emotion, withdrawn into a spatial region of being as into a hovel, satisfied by a little heat as by an eternal truth.