Quotes About Expression

How is it that she spoke to you of such things?" Quintana asked. "Oh, you know. She opened her mouth and words came out.

At times it's like sadness has planted itself on her face, refusing to leave, an overwhelming sadness, and sometimes I see despair there, too.

It's all rather political, mourning is.

Suddenly the strangeness of Quintana of Charyn's face made sense. Because it was a face meant for laughing, but it had never been given a chance. It robbed Phaedra of her breath.

I can't and won't write without hope. I'd rather never write again.

I still don't say anything. I want to but I can't. I want to explain everything that's going on in my head but I can't find the words

Does it help?" he asks. "The e-mailing." She nods. "A tiny bit. It's strange. You're writing a letter to someone who's never going to read it, so it kind of frees you up a bit.

He was very solemn; she wasn't. Phaedra couldn't stop smiling.

Her eyes pools of absolute sorrow

Just ask me how I'm feeling," I want to say. "Just ask and I may tell you." But no one does.

On Friday morning, when Eugenia leaves, Rosie bawls, trying to embrace her, but her grandmother isn't the type. The older woman just keeps on walking until she gets into the cab. It doesn't mean Eugenia feels less. Martha thinks it means that she feels more, but is worried about the dam that'll burst if she ever lets the emotion get the better of her.

You screamed. And swore. Like this. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I'm going to paste it up on the wall so my dickhead uncle sees it the moment he walks in and stops going on about me losing it.

A dead look in her eye, a thin grimace to her lips, a sick pallor to her skin that spoke of despair

It starts off ridiculous and goes downhill from there as we each take a turn. We dance in a way that's only possible when there are no boys around. The rule is not to take yourself seriously, but whoever gets a solo has to keep as straight a face as possible and go for it.

Because without our language, we have lost ourselves. Who are we without our words?

Forget all the rules. Forget about being published. Write for yourself and celebrate writing.

The Negro on saxophone blew out a language older than English and the glasses on the tables trembled

She sat there enveloped in sadness, realizing that of all the words she had wanted to say and hear, she had not heard or said any of them.

He tried to smile, but it was just a shape his mouth made.

That was the thing about pictures--they were worth a thousand words, but sometimes they weren't the right ones.

Life would be so much simpler if guys were like mood rings, and they changed color when they liked you.

Talking won't change it. But sometimes it was what she wanted most, to tell someone; often, though, she just wanted to escape those horrid feelings, to escape herself, so there was no pain, no fear, no ugliness.

We are what we are, neither a good or as bad as others paint us. And what we are doesn't change how truly we feel, only how free we are to follow those feelings.