Quotes About Empathy

It was a mistake. You didn't try to hurt anyone.

I looked at my friend, overwhelmed with confusion. Unsure of what April should do. What I should do. What a strong woman would do. In fact, the only thing that I am certain of is that there are no easy answers, and that anyone who says there are has never been in our shoes.

The list of differences was endless, but, in the end, none of them mattered. What mattered was that we completely accepted each other. That I had her back, and she had mine.

Justice isn't only about what a person deserves, but also about what a person needs.

Guys aren't so different from us, I think, which no matter how many times I think it will always seem like a remarkable revelation.

But now I can see that there is redemption and beauty in an accident emanating from love.

I'm far from fat, but her using me as a sounding board on this topic is like me complaining to a blind woman that I have to wear contacts.

I close my eyes, wondering whether we are ever truly blindsided by misfortune. Or, somehow, somewhere, in the form of empathy or worry or a premonition deep within ourselves, do we feel it coming?

That's unfortunate, I say, choosing my words carefully and realizing that this might be the hallmark of a genuine friendship: how freely you speak.

Pienso en todos los corazones que se están rompiendo en este momento, en Manhattan, en todo el mundo. En todo ese dolor abrumador. Hace que me sienta un poco menos sola pensar que hay otras personas que se están desgarrando por dentro.

Conversation felt healing, and we all needed that.

A really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul.

Tell me what's going on in your world, Joey

If I ever wrote a book on divorces, one of my first suggestions to parents would be: Get rid of the second (or third) wife in the background when you're talking to your child—at least some of the time.

I never hear about dear Mike. I wrote Ellen Greene and asked about him and she replyed and never mentioned Mike but told me all about her roomatism. As if I cared about her roomatism.

I saw Richelle turn her head to stare at him curiously. She always thought it was odd when people cared a lot about things. Sometimes I'd try and explain it to her. "It's like you care about clothes and stuff, Richelle," I'd say. But then she'd just look at me as if I was odd. That wasn't something she just cared about. It was life, to her, like breathing in and out. It couldn't be compared to anything else, in her opinion.

I trudged down Golden Road in the dark, slipping leaflets under doors, still furious and embarrassed. The gang had felt sorry for me for having to go home. Sunny's mother after all, had laughed and simply asked her daughter if she had a jacket! I felt like such an overprotected dork. Still, I had to admit I was tired. My knees were shaking with weariness. By the time I finally reached Golden Pines, I'd almost started to be grateful to Mom for being such a worrywart.

Loneliness is like a set of binoculars that's trained on the social world. This has actually been proven. Psychologists have long theorized that, when the need to belong is unmet, people automatically start to pay more attention to the social world around them. "It's like when you're hungry, and you notice all the food signs on the highway," says Gardner. "When you've been left out, or when you feel unconnected, you notice social cues.

For all the books in his possession, he still failed to read the stories written plain as day in the faces of the people around him.

Writing stories is my way of scratching that itch: my escape from the claustrophobia of individuality. It lets me, at least for a while, live more than one life, walk more than one path. Reading, of course, can do the same.

That's tree persons in the room now and two of us, that equals five, it's nearly full of arms and legs and chests. They're all saying till I hurt. Stop all saying at the same time.

When I was four I was watching ants walking up Stove and she ran and splatted them all so they wouldn't eat our food. One minute they were alive and the next minute they were dirt. I cried so my eyes nearly melted off.

If you're sorry, folks can tell. No use piling on the verbiage.

Daughter, he said in a voice like old wood breaking, can you ever forgive me? I could only answer his question with one of my own. Putting my hand over his mouth, I whispered, Which of us would not sell all we had to stay alive?