Quotes About Emotion

I'm so jealous I can't speak.

She looks like a woman who has found it ridiculous to commit herself to a single emotional stance in anything, but must always ride high heavy irony.

A second wave collapsed over my feet, lipped with white froth, and the chill gripped my ankles with a mortal ache.

I shut my eyes, and the music broke over me like a rainstorm.

O my Homunculus, I am ill. I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling. From the poem Cut, 24 October 1962

Sometimes I wondered if I had made Joan up. Other times I wondered if she would continue to pop in at every crisis of my life to remind me of what I had been, and what I had been through, and carry on her own separate but similar crisis under my nose.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love. I am still so naive; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don't ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry. A spark flew off Arnold and shook me, like a chill. I wanted to cry; I felt very odd. I had fallen into a new way of being happy.

love knows not of death nor calculus above the simple sum of heart plus heart.

It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain Ã¢â'¬Â¦ remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted. When you feel that this may be the good-bye, the last time, it hits you harder.

Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, Kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I love you because you are me ... my writing, my desire to be many lives. I will be a little god in my small way. My happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper. I am justifying my life, my keen emotion, my feeling, by turning it into print.

I went to the bronze boy whom I love, partly because no one really cares for him

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.

Let me not be sentimental, let the distance in time give me humor and irony and a shrewd, if loving, eye.

She used every emotional experience as if it were a scrap of material that could be pieced together to make a wonderful dress; she wasted nothing of what she felt, and when in control of those tumultuous feelings she was able to focus and direct her incredible poetic energy to great effect.

The hurt is not intense when one is hardened to the cold.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical

How clever of them, I thought. They kept the feeling all secret; they wouldn't even let you write it down.

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.