Quotes About Emotion

I'm sick of seeing people die!

She is really pretty. And somehow, she makes me feel all floaty inside.

A suicide attempt can be very much like falling in love. You're not really sure, as you proceed, what is real and what you're making up as you go. You're genuinely uncertain how the whole thing's going to turn out. You want it, but you don't. It seems both inevitable and impossible.

How much has to be explored and discarded before reaching the naked flesh of feeling.

There is nothing more musical than a sunset. He who feels what he sees will find no more beautiful example of development in all that book which, alas, musicians read but too little - the book of Nature.

But music, don't you know, is a dream from which the veils have been lifted. It's not even the expression of a feeling, it's the feeling itself

This is the first letter I have ever written. That a few marks on this piece of paper can bring you my heart in my absence is a great magic. Life is a constant source of wonder.

Sometimes this genius goes dark and drowns in the bitter wells of his heart.

Cold rain streaked the dark gray stone, trickling like tears down its smooth blank face.

And Matt's passion fueled Breanne's emotional recovery. Giddily soaking up her groom's repeated, ardent kisses, the usually restrained, ultra-cool sophisticate was feeling no pain, laughing and animated and uncaring that her exquisite Italian silk creation had been stained like a macchiato. ...she wore the espresso like a badge of honor-- even insisted more photos be taken with the damaged tray and the spattered gown.

There is when making love a moment when the body defies gravity. This is the moment to strive for.

When Mr.Cunningham ran outside during the battle shouting Hurrah for Jeff Davis!, a Union shot clipped his ear. Mr.Cunningham ran back inside his house. His cheering was over for the day.

She was a sea: and I had to swim in her.

Why'd you want to sing about sad things? Candy had asked him. Because any fool can be happy, he'd said to her. It takes a man with real heart —he'd made a fist and laid it against his chest— to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep.

There's no conscious thing on the face of the world that doesn't know dread more intimately than its own heartbeat.

The pain, I can assure you, will be exquisite.

Living in Hell kept him aware of the possibility of Heaven, and he'd never felt more alive.

We cry for ourselves, don't we? Not for the dead. The dead are past caring.

I will say it one last time: Demonation! The feeling of it! There are no words -how can there be?- to describe what it feels like to become words, to feel your life encoded, and laid out in black ink on white paper. All my love and hatred, melted into words. It was like the End of the World.

Who can call a man dead whose words still hush and whose sentiments move?

Love makes its demands, and you listen. You can't bargain with it. You can't fight it. Not if it's really love.

Pleasure was pain there, and vice versa. And he knew it well enough to call it home.

A monster lies in wait in me, A stew of wounds and misery, But fiercer still in life and limb, The me that lies in wait in him.

I am not your Father. I am but a child, like you. Afraid, like you. Fearing sometimes, as you fear.