Quotes About Emotion

He stepped down, avoiding any long look at her as one avoids long looks at the sun, but seeing her as one sees the sun, without looking. On that day of the week and at

I wanted feeling to guide us in life, and not life to be the guide to feeling.

He had known at the bottom of his heart that he would see her here today. But to keep his thoughts free, he had tried to persuade himself that he did not know it. Now when he heard that she was here, he was suddenly conscious of such delight, and at the same time of such dread, that his breath failed him and he could not utter what he wanted to say.

There was apparently nothing extraordinary in what she said, but what unutterable meaning there was for him in every sound, in every turn of her lips, her eyes, her hand as she said it! There was entreaty for forgiveness, and trust in him and tenderness--soft, timid tenderness--and promise and hope and love for him, which he could not but believe in and which choked him with happiness.

He did not know that Levin was feeling as though he had grown wings. Levin knew she was listening to his words and that she was glad to listen to him. And this was the only thing that interested him.

But it did not interest her at all. She and Levin had a conversation of there own, yet not a conversation but a sort of mysterious communication, which brought them every moment nearer, and stirred in both a sense of joyful terror before the unknown into which they were entering.

Your tears mean nothing! You have never loved me; you have neither heart nor honorable feeling! You are hateful to me, disgusting, a stranger—yes, a complete stranger!" With pain and wrath she uttered the word so terrible to herself—stranger.

All the cruellest words a coarse man could say, he said to her in her imagination, and she could not forgive him for them, as if he had actually said them to her.

Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in the faintly perceptible smile.

Speak to her now? But that's just why I'm afraid to speak—because I'm happy now, happy in hope, anyway… . And then?… . But I must! I must! I must! Away with weakness!

Pierre held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful bosom as it rose and fell.

Grief is never fatal.

It was as if a surplus of something so overflowed her being that it expressed itself beyond her will, now in the brightness of her glance, now in her smile. She deliberately extinguished the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in a barely noticeable smile.

What is so exquisite is that not a word has been said by me or by her, but we understand each other so well in this unseen language of looks and tones that this evening more clearly than ever she had told me she loves me.

That only shows you have no heart," she said. But her eyes said that she knew he had a heart, and that was why she was afraid of him.

He walked down, for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun without looking.

Besides, to fall out of love and in love at the same time is to love twice as deeply as one did before.

And at that moment Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must, be his wife, and that it could not be otherwise. He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know, he did not even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he knew not why, that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen.

He speaks passionately, waving his arms. But it is clear that he is searching for words, and that the words which come to him seem inadequate to express what moves him.

you have the sweetest of all music in your soul just now.

The whole world is now for me divided into two halves: one half is she, and there all is joy, hope, light: the other half is everything where she is not, and there is all gloom and darkness

What is so exquisite is that not a word has been said by me or by her, but we understand each other so well in this unseen language of looks and tones that this evening more clearly than ever she told me she loves me.

She did not want to speak of it, to trivialize this feeling with imprecise words.

music transports me immediately into the condition of soul in which he who wrote the music found himself at that time. I become confounded with his soul, and with him I pass from one condition to another. But why that? I know nothing about it? But he who wrote Beethoven's 'Kreutzer Sonata' knew well why he found himself in a certain condition.