Quotes About Emotion

Laughter is the yesterday's slight beard, the negligee among emotions.

When he touched me I died.

Caddy smelled like trees in the rain.

y que pecado y amor y miedo sólo son sonidos que las personas que nunca pecaron ni amaron ni tuvieron miedo usan para eso que nunca sintieron y no pueden sentir hasta que se olviden de las palabras.

Then I begin to run. I run toward the back and come to the edge of the porch and stop. Then I begin to cry. I can feel where the fish was in the dust. It is cut up into pieces of not-fish now, not-blood on my hands and overalls. Then it wasn't so. It hadn't happened then. And now she is getting so far ahead I can-not catch her.

I feel better! I feel! I feel!" until he quit that too and said quietly, looking at the familiar wall, the familiar twin door through which he was about to pass, with tragic and passive clairvoyance: "Something is going to happen to me.

The trouble with modern verse is, that to comprehend it you must have recently passed through an emotional experience identical with that through which the poet himself has recently passed. The poetry of modern poets is like a pair of shoes that only those whose feet are shaped like the cobbler's feet, can wear; while the old boys turned out shoes that anybody who can walk at all can wear.

Mrs Armstid does not rattle the stove now, though her back is still toward the younger woman. Then she turns. They look at one another, suddenly naked, watching one another; the young woman in the chair, with her neat hair and her inert hands upon her lap, and the older one beside the stove, turning motionless too, with a savage screw of gray hair at the base of her skull, and a face that might have been carved in sandstone. Then the younger one speaks.

Anlay???n ötesindeki sevgi dedikleri bu iÅŸte: bu gurur, yan?m?zda getirdiÄŸimiz, ameliyat odalar?na ta??d???m?z, inatla, k?zg?nl?kla yeniden topraÄŸa götürdüÄŸümüz bu iÄŸrenç ç?plakl???m?z? saklama isteÄŸimiz.

The dead air shapes the dead earth in the dead darkness, further away than seeing shapes the dead earth. It lies dead and warm upon me, touching me naked through my clothes. I said You dont know what worry is. I dont know what it is. I dont know whether I am worrying or not. Whether I can or not. I dont know whether I can cry or not. I dont know whether I have tried to or not. I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.

I said You don't know what worry is. I don't know what it is. I don't know whether I am worrying or not. Whether I can or not. I don't know whether I can cry or not. I don't know whether I have tried to or not. I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.

Só que nossa terra não era como esta. Só de caminhar por ela a gente sentia uma coisa. Uma espécie de fecundidade tranquila e violenta que satisfazia até a fome de pão quase.

I wasn't crying, but I couldn't stop.

He could not hear either; the galloping mare was almost upon him before he heard her, and even then he held his course, as if the very urgency of his wild grief and need must in a moment more find him wings

Between grief and nothing, I will take grief

There was a joy of life in him and a kind of tenderness untainted by the merely gentle." When I read that line, written by James Salter, many years later, I thought of Glenn.

Fearful of missing anything, he read on, filled with this anticipation which was half terror, of coming upon something which would touch him, not simply touch him but lift him and carry him away.

If we believe that love is weakness? And people resent it, because they think it's an admission of weakness, they draw away from it… and that's why you kill the thing you love, because it's your weakness personified. If you kill it, you will kill your weakness before it kills you.

That fever had passed; but for the rest of his life it never left his eyes.

I love you for reasons you'll never know anything about

He was seized with longing so intense it ached in his chest, he wanted it always to keep, to drag out secretly and study it like a yellowed photograph, and he thought I am home, this is me, this is where I have been rambling down to all these years.

His smile was the nightmare in my back pocket.(Speaking about Ronald Reagan)

He sat on the bed for a long time, savoring the new thing, the treasure. Rage.

He feels it as a single indescribable shape, something brailled out for him against a ground or backdrop of he knows not what, and it hurts him, in the poet's phrase, like the world hurts God.