Quotes About Emotion

...the heart is full — another throb would split it...

My heart got to thumping. You can't reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky...

Heart pumps blood — and love, passion, hurt, joy, faith.

A merry heart is a good medicine; but a broken spirit drieth the bones.

I am looking your heart in the eye!

Carry your heart and your curls, and nothing more but your fingers.

Soul sells life for the price of heartache.

They say "follow your heart," but if your heart is in a million pieces which piece do you follow?

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart!

Every time I think of you, it is like getting a hug from the inside out.

L'odio creava fra loro un legame più saldo di quanto non avrebbe potuto fare l'amore.

He was remarkably susceptible to music. It was like strong drink, firing him to audacities of feeling, - a drug that laid hold of his imagination and went cloud-soaring through the sky. It banished sordid fact, flooded his mind with beauty, loosed romance and to its heels added wings.

But love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse.

Aveva amato la poesia perché gli interessava la bellezza; ma da quando l'aveva incontrata gli si erano spalancate le porte sui territori sconfinati della poesia d'amore.

his great love for John Thornton that he lost his head.

of course she promptly loved him, or thought she did, which amounts to the same thing.

It was only for a moment, but it was a long moment to him, during which his blood turned to wine and sang through his veins.

She had never had any experiences of the heart. Her only experiences in such matters were of the books, where the facts of ordinary day were translated by fancy into a fairy realm of unreality;

life is always happy when it is expressing itself

How I hate you, he said softly. If hate were stone I could build a tower into the clouds.

I hate you with the hate that I give to all the world; I love you with a feeling nothing else arouses.

Every story has, or should have, a mood: the connective tissue which holds the story together. In this regard some writers are adroit, others don't have a clue.

Liane is feared by those who fear fear, loved by those who love love.