Quotes About Expression

He, too, wanted to tell the story of our adventure in his own way. Praise

One cannot say everything at once.

Where can you scream? It's a serious question: where can you go in society and scream?

It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.

This must be what feelings are. This is why people write poems! I get it now. I get it, and I want more.

Zuzana arched an eyebrow. She was a master of the eyebrow arch, and Karou envied her for it. Her own eyebrows did not function independently of each other, which handicapped her expressions of suspicion and disdain.

I want.." she said, knowing what she wanted, feeling pulled toward it, arching toward it, but hardly knowing how to say it.

What does "true" even mean when it comes to a face? Only souls are true, and when you spill them to the air they melt away ...

My face responds without authorization from my brain, so the resulting smile feels like the biggest, most unguarded, goofiest smile I've ever unleashed in my entire life. I didn't even know my face could do this. It's like there were hidden zippers in my cheeks. Jesus. This must be what feelings are. This is why people write poems! I get it now. I get it, and I want more.

She gave the words back to him, murmuring, and kept them, too. You could do that: Give them back and keep them. "I love you" is generous that way.

Anyway, since when are you shy? Just talk to him already!' ' 'And say what? Nice fiddling, handsome man?' 'Absolutely.

One's own life: an instrument for the shaping of the world.

Skathis might have been an artist, but he'd been a vile one. Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!

singing ballads whose words had never known paper but lived only on the rasping edge of their own voices.

When they had hurried to the train station with their violin cases, they had drawn almost as many stares as they would on any normal day when their hair was to their knees and sheeting behind them like red silk. A poetic fruit-seller had told them once that they looked like dryads, and they did still, only now they looked like dryads who had tired of snagging their hair on brambles and sliced it all off on the edge of a knife.

Not that I'm not keen to talk to him. I am --in the fantasy version of tonight, anyway, in which I actually manage to string words into sentences, and not just random magnetic-poetry sentences, but sentences that don't lead to the logical conclusion that I have brain damage.

Anyone who would wear all white like that clearly has issues

I didn't even know my face could do this. It's like there were hidden zippers in my cheeks. Jesus. This must be what feelings are. This is why people write poems! I get it now. I get it, and I want more.

His mind traced the arabesques and coils of an alphabet that looked like music sounded.

For what was a person but the sum of all the scraps of their memory and experience: a finite set of components with an infinite array of expressions.

Aah! Eye contact. Look away!

And that was why she was angry. Because they weren't giving her a reason to be angry. Feelings. Were. Stupid.

Drawing had always been how she processed things. Once they were on paper they were hers, and she could decide what power they would hold over her.