Quotes About Expression

A house is your third skin, after the skin made of flesh and clothing.

For a long time the old man and this young man sit there side by side at the desk, watching and listening as these three musicians use the black and white keys to tell stories that have nothing at all to do with keys' colors.

Dünya görüÅŸü asl?nda tam olarak ÅŸuydu: Görmeyi öÄŸrenmek. DoÄŸru sözcükler bulunduÄŸunda dünyay? deÄŸiÅŸtirmek mümkün müydü? Yoksa dünyay? deÄŸiÅŸtirmek sadece doÄŸru sözcükleri bulmakla m? mümkündü?

When you walk on the beach at night, you can say things you can't say in real life.

If love is like a possession, maybe my letter are like my exorcisms

My letters are for when I don't want to be in love anymore. They're for good-bye. Because after I write in my letter, I'm not longer consumed by my all-consuming love...My letters set me free. Or at least they're supposed to.

I hate when people say that they have something to tell you and they don't just say it.

Lara: Because sometimes you just feel sad and you can't explain it. Kitty: PMS? Lara: No.It's not PMS. Just because a girl is sad, it doesn't mean it has anything to do with PMS.

I didn't dare look at Conrad. I was afraid my love for him and my need for him to say yes would be written on my face like a poem.

He's being sarcastic. I hate when people are sarcastic. It's so cheap.

I tried to communicate happiness in that word, but I don't know if it came out that way. All I was feeling was despair. And envy. Envy so thick and so black I felt like I was choking on it.

It's not yours. I never gave it to you. You just took it." That's when I finally got it. I finally understood. It wasn't the thought that counted. It was the actual execution that mattered, the showing up for somebody. The intent behind it wasn't enough. Not for me. Not anymore. It wasn't enough to know that deep down, he loved me. You had to actually say it to somebody, show them that you cared. And he just didn't. Not enough.

Because sometimes words were so pitifully inadequate, and I knew that, but I had to try anyway.

Smirky mouths make you want to kiss them, to smooth them out and kiss the smirkiness away.

So, how does he kiss?" I'm blushing. I tap my fingers on my lips before I say, "He kisses like ... like it could be his job.

When I´m done, I put the letter in my diary instead of in my hat box. I have a feeling I´m not done-done yet, that there´s still more I need to say, I just haven´t thought of it yet.

To picture him, sitting at his desk at home, scribbling away with a pen and paper, endears him to me so completely. It gives me shivers. Currents of electricity from my scalp down to my toes.

If love is like a possession, maybe my letters are like my exorcisms. My letters set me free.

But what now? What am I supposed to do with all these feelings? I suppose there´s only one thing I can do. I´ll write him another letter. A postscript with as many pages as it takes to X away whatever feelings I have left for him. I´ll put this wholw thing to rest once and for all. I go to my room and I find my special writing pen, the one with the really smooth inky-blackink. I take out my heavy writing paper, and I begin to write.

When I'm back in my room in my flannel nightgown, I get out my special flowy pen and my good thick stationery, and I start to write. Not a good-bye letter. Just a plain old love letter. Dear Peter…

I stopped speaking when I realized I was no longer using any verbs or nouns, or making any sense

she went as a "formal apology": she wore a floor-length evening gown we found at Goodwill for ten dollars, and she had a sign around her neck, written in calligraphy, which said, I'm sorry.

Sometimes words were so pitifully inadequate.

When I write, I hold nothing back. I write like he'll never read it. Because he never will.