Quotes About Emotion

The elevation of grief to a status transcending that which it sorrows.

Algunas cosas las olvidas, no? Olvidas lo que quieres recordar y recuerdas lo que quieres olvidar.

He couldn't remember where he was. The thought made him smile

She aint worth it. None of em are. He didnt answer for a while. Then he said: Yes they are.

And you will never know the depth of your heart until you are presented with the opportunity for revenge. Only then will you know what you are capable of.

A life without grief is no life at all. But regret is a prison. Some part of you which you deeply value lies forever impaled at a crossroads you can no longer find and never forget

He sat with his back to a rock and felt the warmth of the sun on his face and watched it pool and flare and drain away dragging with it all that pink and rose and crimson sky.

She raised her eyes and looked at him. He'd never seen despair before. He thought he had, but he had not.

Se solo il mio cuore fosse pietra.

So where does music come from?

If I dont come back tell Mother I love her. Your mother's dead Llewelyn. Well I'll tell her myself then.

You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget

If something did not love you you would not be here.

Death is not a lover. Oh yes he is.

SönmüÅŸ aÅŸklar?n fani ete kaz?nm?? efsaneleri.

So where does music come from? No one knows. A platonic theory of music just muddies the water. Music is made out of nothing but some fairly simple rules. Yet it's true that no one made them up. The rules. The notes themselves amount to almost nothing. But why some particular arrangement of these notes should have such a profound effect on our emotions is a mystery beyond even the hope of comprehension. Music is not a language.

If you stretched a piece of music—so to speak—as the tone drew away the color would fade.

She aint worth it. None of em are. He didnt answer for a while. Then he said: Yes they are. When

Everything is painful to me. I think. Maybe I'm just a painful person.

Gleda, bled i prljav. Ne ume ni da ?ita ni da piše, a u njemu ve? klija naklonost ka bezumnom nasilju. Sva se istorija vidi na tom licu: dete, otac ?ovekov

I love her to this day. Love of her led me to leave her. But some other kind of love, whose dimensions were beyond both description and comprehension, was fueling my feelings and moving me in directions that I hadn't anticipated. I had found love. I had lost love. Love of my calling was pushing me on.

a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.

Words were useless. At times, they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moment you really needed them. You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is as silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.

There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.