Quotes About Emotion

The mind writes with a pen, the heart, with a pencil.

She was my darling: difficult, morose - But still my darling.

She looked around, loosened her bra, and turned over on her stomach to give her back a chance to be feasted upon. She said she loved me. She sighed deeply.

Happy is the novelist who manages to preserve an actual love letter that he received when he was young within a work of fiction, embedded in it like a clean bullet in flabby flesh and quite secure there, among spurious lives.

See you soon my strange joy, my tender night.

It's cold today, but in a spring way, and I love you.

Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!

Oh, do not scowl at me, reader, I do not intend to convey the impression that I did not manage to be happy.

Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.

The kind of poem I produced in those days was hardly anything more than a sign I made of being alive, of passing or having passed, or hoping to pass, through certain intense human emotions. It was a phenomenon of orientation rather than of art, thus comparable to stripes of paint on a roadside rock or to a pillared heap of stones marking a mountain trail.

Did he like elms? Did he know Joyce's poem about the two washerwomen? He did, indeed. Did he like it? He did. In fact he was beginning to like very much arbors and ardors and Adas

La miré y la miré, y supe con tanta certeza como que me he de morir, que la quería más que a nada imaginado o visto en la tierra, más que a nada anhelado en este mundo.

Your voice, through the beelike hum, was remote and anxious. It kept sliding into the distance and vanishing. I spoke to you with tightly shut eyes, and felt like crying. My love for you was the throbbing, welling warmth of tears. That is exactly how I imagined paradise: silence and tears, and the warm silk of your knees. This you could not comprehend.

Forget me now, but remember me afterwards, when the bitter part is forgotten. This

Why do you think I have ceased caring for you, Lo? -Well, you haven´t kissed me yet, have you?

From early childhood his mother had taught him that to discuss in public a profound emotional experience-which, in the open air, immediately evanesces and fades, and, oddly, becomes similar to an analogous experience of one's interlocutor-was not only vulgar, but also a sin against sentiment.

By this time I was in a state of excitement bordering on insanity; but I also had the cunning of the insane.

I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth.

The subject of teaching Shakespeare at college level having been introduced: "First of all, dismiss ideas, and social background, and train the freshman to shiver, to get drunk on the poetry of Hamlet or Lear, to read with his spine and not with his skull." Kinbote: "You appreciate particularly the purple passages?" Shade: "Yes, my dear Charles, I roll upon them as a grateful mongrel on a spot of turf fouled by a Great Dane.

Nos enamoramos simultáneamente, de una manera frenética, impúdica, agonizante. Y desesperada, debería agregar, porque este arrebato de mutua posesión sólo se habría saciado si cada uno se hubiera embebido y saturado realmente de cada partícula del alma y el corazón del otro

Nincs több pusztítás, Van. Csak szerelem.

I am ready to give you all of my blood, if I had to — it's hard to explain — sounds flat — but that's how it is.

The more you love a memory; the stronger and stranger it becomes

Egyvalamit egyszer és mindenkorra, visszavonhatatlanul le kell szögeznem. Csak téged szerettelek, szeretlek és foglak szeretni.