Quotes About Emotion

In her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy.

To love makes one solitary, she thought. She

Our hands touch, our bodies burst into fire. The chair, the cup, the table-nothing remains unlit. All quivers, all kindles, all burns clear.

We are the words; we are the music...

La bellezza del mondo ha due tagli, uno di gioia, l'altro d'angoscia, e taglia in due il cuore.

They neither work nor weep; in their shape is their reason.

Sólo el cielo sabe por qué lo amamos tanto.

Now, the truth is that when one has been in a state of mind (as nurses call it)— and the tears still stood in Orlando's eyes — the thing one is looking at becomes, not itself, but another thing, which is bigger and much more important and yet remains the same thing.

We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.

She didn't know their names, but friends she knew they were, friends without names, songs without words, always the best.

She actually said with an emotion that she seldom let appear, Let me come with you, and he laughed. He meant yes or no - either perhaps. But it was not his meaning - it was the odd chuckle he gave, as if he had said, Throw yourself over the cliff if you like, I don't care. He turned on her cheek the heat of love, its horror, its cruelty, its unscrupulosity. It scorched her...

this diminished the entire joy, the pure joy, of the two notes sounding together, and let the sound die on her ear now with a dismal flatness.

she felt, with her hand on the nursery door, that community of feeling with other people which emotion gives as if the walls of partition had become so thin that practically (the feeling was one of relief and happiness) it was all one stream...

Little Mr. Bowley, who had rooms in the Albany and was sealed with wax over the deeper sources of life but could be unsealed suddenly, inappropriately, sentimentally, by this sort of thing––poor women waiting to see the Queen go past––poor women, nice little children, orphans, widows, the War––tut tut––actually had tears in his eyes.

And are you in love? And are you happy? And do you sometimes write a poem? And have you had your hair cut? And have you met anybody of such beauty your eyes dance, as the waves danced

Why did he sit so near and keep his eye on her? Why did they not have done with this searching and agony? Why did they not kiss each other simply? She wished to kiss him. But all the time she went on spinning out words.

Y mientras gesticulas, con tu capa, tu bastón, intento exponer ante ti un secreto que nadie conoce: estoy pidiéndote (en pie detrás de ti) que tomes mi vida entre tus manos y me digas si estoy condenado a inspirar repulsión en aquellos a quienes amo.

Children, our lives have been gongs striking; clamour and boasting; cries of despair; blows on the nape of the neck in gardens.

I love and I hate. I desire one thing only.

It was one of those unclassified affections of which there are so many.

We are doomed, all of us. Women shuffle past with shopping bags. People keep on passing. Yet you shall not destroy me. For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

Pareva più il ricordo del dolore che il dolore stesso.

After that, how unbelievable death was! - that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant . . .

Very gently and quietly, almost as if it were the blood singing in her veins, or the water of the stream running over stones, she became conscious of a new feeling within her. She wondered for a moment what it was, and then said to herself, with a little surprise at recognising in her own person so famous a thing: is happiness.