Quotes About Emotion

The first love-letter is an epoch in love's happy season — it makes assurance doubly sure — that which has hitherto, perhaps, only found utterance in sweet and hurried words, now seems to take a more tangible existence. A love-letter is a proof of how dearly, even in absence, you are remembered.

The free pen, prone to pour out the suggestions of artless affection, vivid imagination, or domestic anecdote, is as much woman's especial instrument as the needle.

Do you remember when you found out there was no Santa Claus? I was so upset I didn't think I'd be able to do the show.

Here's my problem. On Valentine's Day the flowers are wilting and so am I.

A magician is strong because he feels pain. He feels the difference between what the world is and what he would make of it. Or what did you think that stuff in your chest was? A magician is strong because he hurts more than others. His wound is his strength.

You can't just decide to be happy." "No, you can't. But you can sure as hell decide to be miserable. Is that what you want?

His crush went from exciting to depressing, as if he'd gone from the first blush of infatuation to the terminal nostalgia of a former lover without even the temporary relief of an actual relationship in between.

Honk!" he yelled. "Honk honk honk honk honk honk honk!" His classmates agreed.

She considered herself too smart to believe in things she had no evidence for, and that behaved in ways that violated every principle she'd ever observed or heard plausibly spoken about. And she considered herself too tough-minded to believe in things just because they made her feel better.

Her depressive tendency, the flip side of her manic streak, was stirring. Why were they even doing this? it wanted to know. What a waste of time, of effort. Of pencils. Plum needed to get moving, but she was having trouble attaching meanings to things; the meanings kept peeling off like old stickers.

A magician is strong because he hurts more than others. His wound is his strength.

He was unexpectedly happy, though he instinctively kept it a secret.

The gods were great, but what good was greatness if you didn't love?

I call the right axe Sorrow," she said. "You know what I call the left one?" "Happiness?" "Sorrow. I can't tell them apart.

What was under all that armor, all that anger? More anger, and more armor. Anger and armor, all the way down.

What was so great about magic anyway, compared to love? Seriously, what?

She still had her bad days, no question, when the black dog of depression sniffed her out and settled its crushing weight on her chest and breathed its pungent dog breath in her face.

He just stared at his lap and waited for each successive second to impose itself on him in turn like an uninvited guest the way the previous one had.

He slid down the stone bench to her end and kissed her and bit her lower lip until she gasped.

It was easy when you were this angry, and this good, and God he was angry. And good.

And had Eliot really been awake for the whole thing? His brain dealt out a sloppy fan of mental Polaroids, out of sequence: an image of Janet kissing Eliot, of her hand working diligently between Eliot's legs. Had she really been weeping? Had he kissed Eliot? A vivid sense memory of somebody else's stubble, surprisingly scratchy, chafing his cheek and upper lip.

Quentin," she said hoarsely. "You changed your hair.

Hate isn't like love, it doesn't end. It goes on forever. You can never get to the bottom of it. And it's so pure, so unconditional!

Use magic in anger, and you will harm yourself much more quickly than you will harm your adversary.