Quotes About Emotion

The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.

For Rat Kiley, I think, facts were formed by sensation, not the other way around, and when you listened to one of his stories, you'd find yourself performing rapid calculations in your head, subtracting superlatives, figuring the square root of an absolute and then multiplying by maybe.

It's not just the embarrassment of tears. That's part of it, no doubt, but what embarrasses me much more, and always will, is the paralysis that took my heart. A moral freeze: I couldn't decide, I couldn't act, I couldn't comport myself with even a pretense of modest human dignity.

He hated her. Yes, he did. He hated her. Love, too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love.

He thought about the difference between good times and bad times, and how funny it was that he could not state the difference, only feel it.

And in the end, really, there's nothing much to say about a true war story, except maybe Oh.

Everywhere, it seemed, in the tress and water and sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing down on me, a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before.

A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done.

Martha'n?n akci?erlerinde uyumak, onun kan?n? solumak ve avutulmak istiyordu.

True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis. For example: War is hell. As a moral declaration the old truism seems perfectly true, and yet because it abstracts, because it generalizes, I can't believe it with my stomach. Nothing turns inside. It comes down to gut instinct. A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe.

He wanted to heat up the truth, to make it burn so hot that you would feel exactly what he felt.

people who were so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead.

Nostalgia—that's the basic sickness, and I never heard of a doctor who can cure it.

NhÆ°ng h?n tá»± h?i Ä'ích xác ra thì c?m xúc chân th?t nh?t c?a nàng là gì, ý nàng là sao khi nàng nói tan mà h?p.

And right then I submitted. I would go to the war—I would kill and maybe die—because I was embarrassed not to. That was the sad thing. And so I sat in the bow of the boat and cried. It was loud now. Loud, hard crying.

He wanted to heat up the truth, to make it burn so hot that you would feel exactly what he felt. For Rat Kiley, I think, facts were formed by sensation, not the other way around" (p89 "Sweetheart of Song Tra Bong")

It had no memory, therefore no guilt

He was just a kid at war, in love. He was twenty-four years old. He couldn't help it.

The fog made things seem hollow and unattached. He tried not to think about Ted Lavender, but then he was thinking how fast it was, no dram, down and dead, and how it was hard to feel anything except surprise. It seemed unchristian. He wished he could find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotion wasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he felt pleased to be alive.

when you listened to one of his stories, you'd find yourself performing rapid calculations in your head, subtracting superlatives, figuring the square root of an absolute and then multiplying by maybe.

At one point Mitchell Sanders looked at me and said, 'Hey, man, I just realized something.' 'What?' He wiped his eyes and spoke very quietly, as if awed by his own wisdom. 'Death sucks,' he said.

And right then I submitted. I would go to war - I would kill and maybe die - because I was embarrassed not to. That was the sad thing. And so I sat in the bow of the boat and cried. It was loud now. Loud, hard crying.

I remember holding you against the sink, with the sun soaking the window, the soft call of your hips, and the intricate flickers of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth, like a Saturday.

Glamour-hounds and donor-hogs they may be but he loved them.