Quotes About Expression

There are young men of whom it can be said that their countenances chatter. One looks at them and one knows them.

Cuando la ciencia todavía soñaba, la poesía ya actuaba

the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life.

uttering that terrific cry:

It was Gwynplaine's laugh which created the laughter of others, yet he did not laugh himself. His face laughed; his thoughts did not. The extraordinary face which chance or a special and weird industry had fashioned for him, laughed alone. Gwynplaine had nothing to do with it.

The spoken word being breath, the thrilling of minds is like the rustling of leaves.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Speech imprisoned frets to find a vent. To harangue space is an outlet.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

Thus, in speaking of Bonaparte, one was free to sob or to puff up with laughter, provided that hatred lay at the bottom.

Who's there? cried a toothless voice.

Hay muchas bocas que hablan y pocas cabezas que piensan.

You have so much love to give. It must hurt to hold it in all the time.

I love you," he said quietly. "I love you, too." The word felt too small, too ordinary to contain all of this emotion.

The truth was that her photographs were an extension of who she was, what she thought, how she felt. It took perfect concentration to capture the exquisite pain of personal tragedy on film. You had to be there one hundred percent, in the moment - but it had to be their moment.

If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen me instead of a dependable, ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted; to be loved and admired. Now i think perhaps I'd like to be known.

How can I possibly fold all that longing into something as small as words?

Words were like pennies, fallen into corners and down the cracks, not worth the effort of collecting.

Men tell stories", I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. "Women get on with it.

You're afraid of love, but you've got so much of it to give.

What is passion? It is surely the becoming of a person. . . . In passion, the body and the spirit seek expression . . . The more extreme and the more expressed that passion is, the more unbearable does life seem without it. It reminds us that if passion dies or is denied, we are partly dead and that soon, come what may, we will be wholly so.

she focused on the pale blue yarn and the way the knitting needles dove in and out of the soft strands, creating every moment something that hadn't existed before.

If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen me instead of a dependable, ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I'd like to be known.

Men tell stories," I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. "Women get on with it. For us