Quotes About Emotion

My favourite tree was the Weeping Scholar Tree. I thought it must come from Japan. They understood things of the spirit in Japan. They disemboweled themselves when anything went wrong.

He didn't answer but reached over and put his hand at the root of my hair and ran his fingers out slowly to the tip ends like a comb. A little electric shock flared through me and I sat quite still. Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy and peaceful.

I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

The sickness rolled through me in great waves

I like you.' 'That's tough, Joan,' I said, picking up my book. 'Because I don't like you. You make me puke, if you want to know.

It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in the 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.

I felt my lungs inflate with the inrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, 'This is what it is to be happy.

Szeretnék szeretni valakit, mert szeretném, ha szeretnének.

I wonder if art divorced from normal and conventional living is as vital as art combined with living: in a word, would marriage sap my creative energy and annihilate my desire for written and pictorial expression which increases with this depth of unsatisfied emotion ... or would I achieve a fuller expression in art as well as in the creation of children?

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow.

I didn't call you I didn't call you at all. Nevertheless, nevertheless You steamed to me over the sea

How frail the human heart must be ? a throbbing pulse , a trembling thing ? a fragile, shining instrument of crystal, which can either weep or sing.

I felt nothing. Then I felt a small, deep thrill, and a bright seam of red welled up at the lip of the slash. The blood gathered darkly, like fruit, and rolled down my ankle into the cup of my black patent leather shoe.

I felt a bit awkward about the tears, but they were real enough.

It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore. And yet I cannot let it go. I cannot let it go.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind as coolly as a tree or a flower.

How clear, how lovely. Now just write the damn thing.

Love Is a Parallax

I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in as glass that is unsteady and too full

I felt moved and tender and perfectly certain about what I was going to do.

I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were part of me. They were my landscape.

I tried to smile, but my skin had gone stiff like parchment.

I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week.