Quotes About Empathy

Judging people together was an essential part of best friendship

I just wish," he said, not looking at her but at the floor, "that I could say the right thing, do the right thing, to make this easier for you. Whatever you want from me, I want to do it. I want to be there for you in whatever the right way is for you, Clary.

Will had shrugged once, helplessly. He had almost wished Jem would be angry with him. It would have been easier. He'd never felt so small within himself as he did when he faced Jem's expansive kindness.

It was only recently that Isabelle had realized other girls weren't just for envying, avoiding, or disliking.

I know you feel inhuman, and as if you are set apart, away from life and love, but..." His voice cracked a little, the first time Tessa had heard him sound unsure. He cleared his throat. "I promise you, the right man won't care.

Eres como yo. Dices las cosas que pienso pero nunca digo en voz alta. Lees los libros que leo. Amas la poesía que yo amo. Me haces reír con tus canciones ridículas y la forma en que lo ves todo. Siento como si pudieras mirar dentro de mí y ver todos los lugares en los que soy extraña o inusual y adaptas tu corazón alrededor de ellos porque eres extraño e inusual de la misma forma. Somos lo mismo.

We both see the same world, but in a different way. Ty feels the same joy I do, the joy of creation. We feel all the same things, only the shapes of our feelings are different.

You disappear so completely into your head sometimes," he said. "I wish I could follow you." You do, she wanted to say. You live in my head all the time.

So, what are you?" "What I am is someone who doesn't want you to jump out of the window. The rest are details.

Many choices were not easy-they were near impossible, and there was no point hating poeple who were forced to make them.

That Jem makes beautiful things and I destroy them. That it really ought to be me dying and not him. I mean, what's the point of living if you can't even enjoy it? Yet Jem enjoys all the life he's got. It's not fair.

Jace knew he was being cruel, and he barely cared. Hurting people he loved was almost as good as hurting himself when he was in this kind of mood.

You are my conscience. You have ever been, James Carstairs.

If you can't tell the truth to the people you care about the most, eventually you stop being able to tell the truth to yourself.

To witness means to decide to participate—not only with the head but with the heart—in the experience of another, an experience so painful that it must be shared in order to be confronted. Those in positions of power in our society have a tremendous ability to bring others from pain to possibility. And the beginning lies in poetry, for poetry provides distinctive access to pain. ?

Being around happy people always cheers me up.

I used to say I wanted somebody funny and intelligent, but kindness is the most important quality in a man.

I discovered early on that some performers live their life in order to act, so all their relationships are simply an experience that they can feed back into their work. Which I find vampiric.

If you age with somebody, you go through so many roles - you're lovers, friends, enemies, colleagues, strangers you're brother and sister. That's what intimacy is, if you're with your soulmate.

Anytime you feel love for anything, be it stone, tree, lover, or child, you are touched by the Goddess's magick...

I don't love you. But I see the value of you, the incredible worth of you, more than anyone I've ever known.

I cared about them. I wanted them to feel better, to live better lives. And then it occurred to me - I cared about myself. I wanted me to live a better life, too Caring about myself was allowing me to care about others.

Studying her small face, Hunter realized two things: he didn't want her to be like anyone else, and, right or wrong, he had to bring this torturous waiting to an end, for both their sakes.

I'm here if you need an ear. You can count on me." With that, she left the loft. Loretta wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed out the window at the moonlit yard, remembering another night, a lifetime ago, when Hunter had sat astride his black stallion there, his arm lifted to her in a salute, his fisted hand holding her stolen bloomers. How could it be that a Comanche understood the song her heart sang and her own aunt did not?