Quotes About Emotion

She had not planned to weep—it was the last thing from her mind, a display of mawkish weakness—but she could not help it.

But I could tell from the way his muscles become stiff and this trembling that ran through him that he was finished with me. Even so I couldn't stop.

I cried myself, thinking of the grass growing on her tennis court, and the cruelty that was natural.

When Mr Bird had written his will and had read it over he became aware that he was laughing. He heard the sound for some time, a minute or a minute and a quarter, and then he recognized its source and wondered why he was laughing like that, such a quiet, slurping sound, like the lapping of water.

bring himself to leave her, even when

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

They had buried him under our elm tree, they said -- yet this was not totally true. For he really lay buried in my heart.

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

Somehow, even the slightest words and phrases of Sappho yield her voice.

The snow crisscrosses down and flurries up all afternoon, unaware it is snow or some of us are desperate.

How strange, she thought, that she could hate and love in the same breath.

On hearing this remark, my heart jumped clear up in my throat.. I thought surely it was going to hop right out on the depot platform. I looked up and tried to tell him who I was, but something went wrong. When the words finally came out they sounded like the squeaky old pulley on our well when Mama drew up a bucket of water.

It's not good for a boy to want something with all his heart and then be disappointed. Things like that can hurt for a long time.

I know it is still there, hiding its secret beneath those long, red leaves, but it wouldn't be hidden from me for part of my life is buried there, too.

I know it is still there, hiding its secret beneath those long, red leaves, but it woukdn't be hidden from me for part of my life is buried there, too.

Before you can inspire with emotion, you must be swamped with it yourself. Before you can move their tears, your own must flow. To convince them, you must yourself, believe.

Demelza thought: She's one day too late, just one day. How beautiful she is; how I hate her. Then she glanced at Ross again, and for the first time like the stab of a treacherous knife it occurred to her that Ross's desire for her last night was a flicker for empty passion. All day she had been too preoccupied with her own feelings to spare time for his. Now she could see so much in his eyes.

His hands touched the cool skin of her back, Abruptly they slipped inside her frock and closed about her waist. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and he kissed her until the room went dark before her eyes.

Music, she thought, perhaps could be a continuing process, like life, a shedding of one skin as fast as another grew. Instead every tune seemed to exist with its notes firmly rooted in an event or an emotion or a period of time.

The most frightening blazing anger was alive in her now. It was not only Elizabeth that she could have killed but Ross. She could have thrown every piece of crockery at him, and knives and forks too. Indeed she could have attacked him knife in hand. Fundamentally there was nothing meek or mild about her. She was a fighter, and it showed now.

I suspect that for a good deal of the time you live in a sort of glass case, not knowing real enthusiasm or genuine emotion; or feeling them perhaps at second hand, feeling them sometimes because you think you ought to, not because you really do.

She added, "I've only followed the devices and desires of my own heart." Verity patted her hand. "That's what we love you for.