Quotes About Emotion

She wasn't crying because of the life she led: because, never having led any other, she'd accepted that with her that was just the way things were. But I also think she was crying because, through the music, she might have guessed there were other ways of feeling

To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

What I'm writing to you is not for reading— it's for being.

I write very simple and very naked. That's why it wounds. I'm a grey and blue landscape. I rise in a dry fountain and in the cold light.

She was made entirely of a sweetness bordering on tears.

How does it feel to have a daughter? - At times it's like holding a warm egg in my hand.

Every day it will be the same thing: at dusk I begin to feel melancholy and pensive.

I am not an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog.

I, who called love my hope for love.

I must not forget, I thought, that I have been happy, that I am being happier than one can be. But I forgot, I've always forgotten.

Are we fruit of the same tree? No - Angela is everything I wanted to be and never was. What is she? She's the waves of the sea. While I'm the dense and gloomy forest. I'm in the depths. Angela scatters in sparkling fragments. Angela is my vertigo. Angela is my reverberation.

Dá-me a tua mão desconhecida, que a vida está me doendo, e não sei como falar – a realidade é delicada demais, só a realidade é delicada, minha irrealidade e minha imaginação são mais pesadas.

I know that what I am feeling is serious and has the power to destroy me.

Suffering for a being deepens the heart within the heart.

Refugiei-me na doideira porque a razão não me bastava.

her short stories read like perfect songs.

I ask: will she ever someday know love's farewell? Will she ever someday know the swoonings of love? Will she take in her own way the sweet journey? I know nothing. What can you do with the truth that everyone's a little sad and a little alone.

Macabéa had a passion for horror films and musicals. She especially liked films where the women were hanged or shot through the heart with a bullet. It never dawned on her that she herself was a suicide case even though she had never contemplated killing herself. Her life was duller than plain bread and butter.

And I scream: I feel, I suffer, I am happy, I am moved. Only my enigma interests me. More than anything, I search for myself in my great void.

I, just from having felt affection, thought that loving is easy.

In no sense an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is like a dank haze. The words are sounds transfused with shadows that intersect unevenly, stalactites, woven lace, transposed organ music. I can scarcely invoke the words to describe this pattern, vibrant and rich, morbid and obscure, its counterpoint the deep bass of sorrow.

Es como unas ganas de respirar fuerte, y también el miedo

Her brown eyes were untranslatable…She was made entirely of a sweetness bordering on tears.