Quotes About Emotion

I'm not really beautiful,' she said to herself, 'but tonight I feel beautiful. And I look like a girl who feels beautiful.' (84)

I don't believe this nonsense about the impossibility of falling in love but once; a woman can fall in love a dozen times, but it's always with the same man.

There was, however, a real "Honey the cat." Honey was one of two cats and a parrot living in the building on the day it was demolished, whose owners were not allowed to retrieve them. Neither the cats nor the parrot were ever seen again.

This displacement between then and now created an ever-present sense of unease, like a low-frequency sound she couldn't hear clearly enough to identify, but that was disturbing nonetheless.

He lies down next to me. He says, 'You know - you have a face to die for/' 'Well, don't die,' I say, "we just met.

He says,'Why is it love, Esther? Why call it that?' 'Because. Why is what you do art? Because you say so.

Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come.

Abortions will not let you forget.You remember the children you got that you did not get.

Since a man must bring To music what his mother spanked him for When he was two: bits of forgotten hate, Devotion: whether or not his mattress hurts: The little dream his father humored: the thing His sister did for money: what he ate For breakfast—and for dinner twenty years Ago last autumn: all his skipped desserts.

The dark hangs heavily Over the eyes.

Poetry is life distilled.

When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water

A language so beautiful and lethal My mouth bleeds when I speak it.—

Poetry has acquired a fluffy image, which is totally at odds with its real nature. It's not pastel colours, but blood-red and black. If you don't obey it as a force in your life, it will tear you to pieces.

The opposite of depression isn't feeling happy but being fully alive, however painful

there's no cure for love, when it hits you make up your mind, to live with it!

Some people believe that it was while studying the niceties of British and American spelling that the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch painted his masterpiece, 'The Scream'.

He looked closely into Vyvyan's round and smiling face and said solemnly, "Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.

What you have loved remains yours.

The most beautiful things cannot be written, unfortunately. Fortunately. We would have to be able to write with our eyes, with wild eyes, with the tears of our eyes, with the frenzy of a gaze, with the skin of our hands.

This is a book of raw flesh.

This is how I want you: larger and smaller stronger and weaker taller and trembling more, more out of breath that I more burning more penetrating bolder bossier more yielding more frightened narrower and more relentless than you are more than I.

I Drink. I Burn. I Dream. And Sometimes, I tell Stories !

But I may also be afraid. I am afraid. I have already read it. And, not to lie to you, I liked it. But I am afraid. I am not afraid of you, Fidelia, Sania, Ania. I am afraid of you . (I put all this in my separate notebook. My doubtbook.)