Quotes About Emotion

Kummer hat etwas in den Linien deines Gesichts zu suchen, nicht in deiner Erinnerung.

You are the end, and the beginning. ... When I die, my only regret will be that you could never reside in my heart to hear how it sings when you touch me.

It was I who was conquered. In just seven nights, that fledgling goddess not only discovered that I had a heart, but she stole it forever, then cradled it in the palm of her hand.

Love was not a drink one tasted and then rejected. Love was not something that could be avoided or arranged. Love was a highwayman, standing by the road of life, just waiting to strike at the reckless and the few.

What made something precious? Losing it and finding it.

He pushed her in. And then he pulled her out. All her life, Lydia would remember one thing. All his life, Nath would remember another.

Lydia, five years old, standing on tiptoe to watch vinegar and baking soda foam in the sink. Lydia tugging a heavy book from the shelf, saying, "Show me again, show me another." Lydia, touching the stethoscope, ever so gently, to her mother's heart. Tears blur Marilyn's sight. It had not been science that Lydia had loved

All up and down the street the houses looked like any others—but inside them were people who might be happy, or taking refuge, or steeling themselves to go out into the world, searching for something better. So many lives she would never know about, unfolding behind those doors.

I could have done that, Marilyn thought. And the words clicked into place like puzzle pieces, shocking her in their rightness. The hypothetical past-perfect. The tense of missed chances. Tears dripped down her chin. No! She though suddenly. I could do that.

She could not, she had thought as she bent to kiss the baby's flushed cheek, have loved this child more if it had come from her own flesh.

It came, over and over, down to this: What made someone a mother? Was it biology alone, or was it love?)

Unconsciously, one hand crept down to her belly, where an ache was beginning to blossom.

All her life, she had learned that passion, like fire, was a dangerous thing...It scaled walls and jumped over trenches. Sparks leapt like fleas and spread as rapidly; a breeze could carry embers for miles.

There was no room left in her for anger. Something within her tipped and cracked.

You'll always be sad about this, but it doesn't mean you made the wrong choice. It's just something that you have to carry.

You don't feel like smiling? Then what? Force yourself to smile. Act as if you were already happy, and that will tend to make you happy.

She drove on into the night, homeward, her hair weeping tiny slow streams down her back.

She thought, as she would often for many years, of the photograph from that day, with the one golden feather inside it: Was it a portrait of her, or her daughter? Was she the bird trying to batter its way out, or was she the cage?

a haze of formless, pervasive emotion, nothing she could grasp, but full of looming thoughts that appeared from nowhere, startling her, then receded into whiteness again before she was even sure what she had seen.

She had never seen an adult cry like that, with such an animal sound. Recklessly. As if there were nothing more to be lost. For years afterward, she would sometimes wake in the night, heart thumping, thinking she'd heard that agonized cry again.

Years of yearning had made her sensitive, the way a starving dog twitches its nostrils at the faintest scent of food.

Lydia felt her heart in her chest like a pellet of ice, sliding down out of reach.

How suffocating to be so loved

She replaces the phone number on the board, her damp fingers smudging the ink so that the digits blur as if in a strong wind, or underwater.