Quotes About Emotion

Fleur de feu. Oh flower of fire. That fire is not hate or fear, which makes flowers come, not terror or anger or lust, it is love that is the fire of the Bite-Me-Not, love which cannot abandon, love which cannot harm. Love which never dies.

But what, demanded the jawbones, with sinister insistency, is love?

Every sweet thing I see reminds me of some other thing, which is bitter.

In the midst of passion, some previous passion still held some sway, it seemed.

Hell was Electra, not a punishment of horror, but of pleasure which was horror.

The boy flushed. The voice had recently broken to a true silver tenor, cunning accessory to Mercurio's darker range. He was, besides, in love with Mercurio. Half Verensa had been would be. Filled with terror and joy, the boy waited trembling.

Death had been love's price.

She had set her hand on Leopardo's bowed head and allowed herself a moment with the mass of apricot hair that felt like crisp wild grass to her.

His voice quivered; it had the harp-string note to it that belongs to some intense emotion of which the victim is himself uncertain, or at which he is in disorder. But it was a voice that meant to demand blood.

When he had danced from her sight, Electra Chenti raised her own hand, which had struck him, and stretched it. Presently, she put it up to her lips, laid her mouth against it, held it to her.

Her condition of insoluble despair had finally sought relief in song.

A dream came by. The dream had the actor's face and his voice, but he did not speak to her and his eyes did not answer hers.

She felt, with intensity only fifteen could know. And it was a true and dreadful intensity, no less to be credited because one found her wracked in the throes of it.

Mercurio's profound graveness tottered on the brink of extreme uncontrolled hilarity.

With one she loved she would be fire and flower and flood. But with any other, worthless, cold, and useless.

She did not know quite yet how she had come to rely, to feed upon this anger, her only appetite.

Let the sky weep for me, Doro. Now I can only weep blood.

His eyes on her across the distance had seen only symbols, not a face or frame.

She did not understand what to do; she did not understand herself. All the amorphous pain that had welled up in her before, all that longing without a name, and with a name it was no better.

Cyrion is capable of sentiment over small children. And can remain unblinded by the prettiest woman.

Shaina got to her feet and clenched her hands. Her eyes, chestnut-colored, almost copper in the fire gloom, were wide and full of hunger, but her mouth was set.

He met Roilant's gaze with two eyes more clear than the clearest winter sea, and rather colder.

They say in the east you love the person you marry and in the west you marry the person you love. But maybe it's a lot simpler than that. Maybe you just love the person you love.

People used to recordings believed every piece of music had a definitive sound, its emotional context trapped in amber, a butterfly pinned to a board; beautiful, but dead. Live music was just that. Alive.