Quotes About Emotion

She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; ...while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I gave her to hold in her awkward fist the scepter of my passion.

Enchia-me o peito uma tempestade de soluços.

Did I ever mention that her bare arm bore the 8 of vaccination? That I loved her hopelessly? That she was only fourteen?

I am not handsome, I am not interesting, I am not talented. I am not even rich. But, Lise, I offer you everything I have, to the last blood corpuscle, to the last tear, everything. And, believe me, this is more than any genius can offer you because a genius needs to keep so much in store, and thus cannot offer you the whole of himself as I do. I may not achieve happiness, but I know I shall do everything to make you happy.

I do not know the words I must choose to make you understand why I was so tormented. Such words do not come in the small size that fits your everyday needs.

I was passionately parched; but she began to whimper in an unusually dreary way when I attempted to fondle her

my own desire for her blinds me when she is near

Los veinticinco años que había vivido desde entonces se empequeñecieron hasta convertirse en un latido agónico y luego desaparecer.

He excused himself saying he felt out of sorts, and continued to clean the bowl of his pipe as fiercely as if it were my heart he was hollowing out.

Even then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice

He was beloved not for any essential ability but for those unforgettable digressions of his, when he would remove his glasses to beam at the past while massaging the lenses of the present.

Glancing sideways, he said that he loved her. Then, turning rapidly, he walked away and entered a tobacco shop.

the book like a sleigh left my lap...

She combined a cool forwardness -the overflow of what I think is called "poise"- with a shyness and sadness that caused her detached way of selecting her words to seem as unnatural as the intonation of a professor of "speech.

Ero un mostro pentapodo, ma ti amavo. Ero ignobile e brutale e turpido e tutto quello che vuoi, ma ti amavo, ti amavo! E c'erano momenti in cui sapevo come ti sentivi, e saperlo era l'inferno.

I dreamt of you last night—as if I was playing the piano and you were turning the pages for me.

Her painted eyelids were closed. A tear of no particular meaning gemmed the hard top of her cheek. Nobody could tell what went on in that little head. Waves of desire rippled there. — Vladimir Nabokov, The Original of Laura (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008)

I love you. Infinitely and inexpressibly. I've woken up in the middle of the night and here I am writing this. My love, my happiness.

if a violin string could ache, i would be that string.

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

love,love,love...that is the soul of genius

Poetry is the human soul entire Squeezed like a lemon or a lime, Drop by drop into atomic words".

I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs.

Love is a naked shadow On a gnarled and naked tree