Quotes About Emotion

They had only ever discussed books but what, in this life, is more personal than books? Knife.

No doubt, you are doomed to love again." "Doomed? That's an awful thing to say." "Doomed, blessed. It's only your perspective.

Endings can be happy or sad, I don't care anymore as long as it's earned.

Love you," she repeats.

At first, he thinks this is happiness, but then he determines it's love. Fucking love, he thinks. What a bother.

Có má»™t câu h?i ta Ä'ã nghÄ© r?t nhi?u, r?ng t?i sao vi?t v? nh?ng th? ta không thích l?i dá»… dàng hÆ¡n vi?t v? nh?ng gì ta yêu nh?.

They had only ever discussed books but what, in this life, is more personal than books?

Why wouldn't you tell someone you loved them? Once you loved someone, you repeated it until they were tired of hearing it. You said it until it ceased to have meaning. Why not? Of course, you goddamn did.

No one actually needs another person or another person's love to survive. Love is when we have irrationally convinced ourselves that we do.

lies can sound awfully pretty when a girl is in love with the person telling them.

My Blood flows towards India ,bcoz India is in my Heart.

He was known to fall in love six or seven times a day.

In that moment, he had not known which he had wanted more: to gather her onto his lap and comfort her, or to lay her down and ride her into mindless, sweaty ecstasy. He cast off the question with a restless shrug, deciding to do both as soon as he was done here.

When you love a man, you are in his power.

I want you. Stop playing games.

Fear like that stays inside you forever if you don't find a way to get rid of it.

Grief is what tells you who you are alone.

Death is a divorce nobody asked for; to live through it is to find a way to disengage from what you thought you couldn't stand to lose.

When I wept and told him I was afraid I was too intense, too much, he interrupted my tears and said, "If someone came down from above and told me I could keep only one thing about you, it would be your too-muchness.

The heart breaks open.

We love what we love in spite of ourselves, toward something larger and more generous than the velvet prison of self.

God is love and love is memory, and memory is a bruise or a warmth or a grocery list you cannot bear to throw away.

YESTERDAY I FOUND a note I had written to myself, in the piles of outlines and narrative maps that are a writer's building blocks. "Let Her Die," I had written at the top of a legal pad, a shorthand reminder to get to that part of the story. Then I saw it the next day and half gasped; for a moment it was as though someone else had given me this instruction. Let her die: a three-word definition of the arc of grief if ever I heard one, and it takes a long time.

He loved me. He'd loved me as long as he he'd known me! I hadn't loved him as long perhaps, but now I loved him equally well, or better. I loved his laugh, his handwriting, his steady gaze, his honorableness, his freckles, his appreciation of my jokes, his hands, his determination that I should know the worst of him. And, most of all, shameful though it might be, I loved his love for me.