Quotes About Emotion

I turned to music originally because of my past and needing a release or an outlet to get out anger or frustration or hurt.

What's the best thing that happened to you in the past ten years?" I ask. "Seeing you again." Smiling, I push back against his chest. "Besides that." "Meeting you the first time.

I sit on a rock, watching her. She seems better, I think. But now and then I see her staring off into the distance with a blank expression on her face, and it worries me.

I feel a joy so strong it's almost painful—a knife's edge of joy.

The stark gray sky and bare tree limbs feel more suited to her than the uncomplicated promise of sunny spring days.

And so your personality is shaped. You know too much, and this knowledge makes you wary. You grow fearful and mistrustful. The expression of emotion does not come naturally, so you learn to fake it. To pretend. To display an empathy you don't actually feel.

And even if she loses the charms, she thinks, they'll always be a part of her. The things that matter stay with you, seep into your skin.

Now and then I leaf through the small blue volume of Emily Dickinson poems that my teacher, Mrs. Crowley, pressed into my hand. I remember her words to me when I left school: Your mind will be your comfort. It is, sometimes. And sometimes it isn't.

one who speaks my language without saying a word.

I didn't follow my heart, Angela. I followed my head. And when it comes down to it, the longing in the heart lingers. Do you want to know the truth?" I nod, though I'm not sure I do. "I wish I had not left. I did what I thought would save me from heartache, but in many ways it kept me from living.

Cavilo sobre el papel, tratando de derramar mi corazón en la página. Pero solo se me ocurren las mismas palabras, y espero que la profundidad del sentimiento que hay tras ellas les dé peso y sustancia. «Te amo. Te echo de menos. Ten cuidado.»

The smallest things get to her. It's as if she assumes everything will go right, and when it doesn't -- which, of course, is pretty often -- she is surprised and affronted.

I puzzle over the onionskin, trying to spill my heart onto the page. But I can only come up with the same words, in the same order, and hope the depth of feeling beneath them gives them weight and substance. I love you. I miss you.

I did not love him the way I loved Dutchy: beyond reason. Maybe you only get one of those in a lifetime.

I try to forget the horror of what happened. Or—perhaps forget is the wrong word. How can I forget? And yet how can I move forward even a step without tamping down the despair I feel? When I close my eyes, I hear Maisie's cries and Mam's screams, smell the acrid smoke that must have started from that pile of newspapers, feel the heat of the fire on my skin, and heave upright on my pallet in the Schatzmans' parlor, soaked in a cold sweat.

Grumpy is her favorite dwarf.

Logic is overrated and superfluous when it comes to love.

Yes, my first memory of singing, in general, was of a Christmas song. And then listening to Christmas music was really the first music I was ever connected to.

You're gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul

To play someone who is who they are because of the happiness and contentedness that they've known in their life is interesting because of sort of how banal it is.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed For a dream's sake.

Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you call'd them sweet?

Choose love not in the shallows but in the deep.

My heart is like a singing bird.