Quotes About Emotion

She was in me, in my blood, invading every cell in my body. She was the one I wanted. She was the one I saw, felt, desired. This was wrong. He was wrong. It was all so wrong.

You know what I do to forget the past? I drink my own special concoction. I call it Milk of Amnesia.

He makes me feel all jiggly inside. STOP FEELING. Stop caring.

The last thing a French person will tell a stranger is that she loves her job. It just sounds naïve. At best, if she actually does love her work, she'll tell a close friend, because liking work is a private, almost intimate sentiment in France. It's definitely not something you advertise to the world.

I broke his heart though! When I refused to stay in his selfish New World, his stone heart broke into pieces!"..."I know it did because when he said good-bye, a splinter flew from his heart and pierced my own. And it's still there. I still feel it.

Panic is a bad judge.

You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.

Confidence is something you feel before you truly understand the situation

Lady Madelyne had sealed her own fate. She'd warmed his feet.

Education isn't just about feeding the brain. Art and music feed the heart and soul.

Then the sun would sink a little, feathering lightly into the surface of the water, and Grandma and I would climb back in the car and go off and get in a car wreck.

I wished I could erase the message, suck the word "sorry" from the En glish language, and hack it to pieces with a rusty ax.

That was bliss. Being cared for. Wanted. Feeling so necessary to someone's existence that there was no place for the loneliness inside her.

Dear Madame Morgenstern, As absurd as it sounds, I've been thinking of you since we parted. I want to take you into my arms, tell you a million things, ask you a million questions. I want to touch your throat and unbutton the pearl button at your neck

Here in his arms was the girl who had lived in the house near the Varosliget, the young dancer who had loved Sandor Goldstein, the woman who loved him now. He could almost see insider her that unnameable thing that had remained the same through all of it: her I, her very life. It seemed so small, a mustard seed with one rootlet shit deep into the earth, strong and fragile at once. But it was all there needed to be. It was everything. She had given it to him, and now he held it in his hands.

Don't you love it when the ending makes you smile?

I would like to confess things to her, to throw myself in her lap, to open the cage of my chest and show her the bones.

Theater is far superior to film in poetry, in abstract poetry.

Love is a bruise. The best way to let it heal is to stop touching it.

Es gibt einen warmherzigen und sanften Spott, der auf engster Vertrautheit beruht, einer, die man nicht einzugestehen hat - einen Spott, der aus nichts anderem besteht als dem Bedürfnis, ein Übermaß an Sympathie aufzulösen.

Things we could not tell each other with the width of the Atlantic between us we communicated from heart to heart in those imaginary conversations.

True poetry is embarrassing.

So you do believe in... true love? she whispered. I took a deep breath, I think I have to, I said, blinking back tears. Without it, we're all going nowhere.

You know not, yet, the sort of love that strikes like a lightning bolt; that clutches hold of you by the heart, as irrevocably as death; that becomes the lodestar by which you steer the rest of your life. I would not wish such a love on anyone, man or woman, for it can make your life a paradise, or it can destroy you utterly.