Quotes About Emotion

Sparks are warm while they last.

I photograph you every morning In a cruel attempt to capture A formal souvenir of what I love

The whole art [of propaganda] consists in doing this so skilfully that everyone will be convinced that the fact is real, the process necessary, the necessity correct, etc.," he had written in Mein Kampf. "The art of propaganda lies in understanding the emotional ideas of the great masses and finding, through a psychologically correct form, the way to … the heart of the broad masses.

Having him hold me like that was the only good thing out of it all, having him hold me and being right there with me. I just wished he could have held me harder and tighter and made the bad feelings, the dirty feelings, go away. But I don't think you can hold a person that tight, so tight that she's in your heart, way inside your skin, being cleaned and warmed by your blood. (11)

The love of the famous, like all strong passions, is quite abstract. Its intensity can be measured mathematically, and it is independent of persons.

It hurts to love. It's like giving yourself to be flayed and knowing that at any moment the other person may just walk off with your skin.

Compassion is an unstable emotion. It needs to be translated into action, or it withers. The question of what to do with the feelings that have been aroused, the knowledge that has been communicated. If one feels that there is nothing 'we' can do -- but who is that 'we'? -- and nothing 'they' can do either -- and who are 'they' -- then one starts to get bored, cynical, apathetic.

Only memory cannot be burned.

He and I had a bridge that no one else traveled that made us artistic lovers, passionate without a touch of the flesh. He made me thrive, and valuing that, I could do nothing that would endanger it.

Amar es ponerse al cuello el nudo corredizo de la ilusión; adorar a alguien mientras pareces asfixiarte. Pero incluso el amor no correspondido, el amor fugaz, es mejor que nada.

She knew with painful certainty that the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference.

There's a kind of love that has the power to save you, to get you through life. It's like breathing. You have to do it or you'll die. And when it's over, your soul starts to bleed, Livvy. There's no pain in the world like it, I swear. If you were feeling that now, you wouldn't be able to sit up straight or have a coherent conversation.

Love wasn't love if she had to try too hard to feel it.

en el llanto modulan la fase inspiratoria, el aire entra en trecortadamente por la nariz, y sale en una larga espiración por la boca abierta (como en un suspiro). Cuando el llanto arrecia las sacadas entrecortadas también invaden la fase espiratoria (estallidos sacádicos) y se acompañan por sacudidas de los hombros.

We always fall in love with a story, not a name or a body but what is inscribed in the man.

He gave her his heart. She took it and placed it quietly in the pocket of her gown. No one observed what she did.

When you're sad you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound.

Afraid, now that I knew what I wanted. What I did not want. I did not want him to hurt me.

I said nothing, fearful that he would stop.

I felt such desire for him, such murderous and vengeful desire, that I was trembling.

That's not what I meant." "What?" "I want to know what you did with her." He looked at me. "Why?" he asked at last. "I don't know. So I can imagine it. So I can sleep." He started to speak, then stopped himself. Then he began again.

I smiled. Wanting to shove him into the hall with its red-flocked Victorian wallpaper, not able to comfort him, not wanting to comfort him.

It's like trying to remember a dream," I said. "It's in me somewhere." "I wish I were in you somewhere," he said. To my surprise, I was a little disappointed. Too easy, I thought. "Where are you instead?

The story made me smile and I wondered if it made me smile because I wanted him to like me.