Quotes About Emotion

He'd pulled back a little, just with his lower half, and I was afraid the scorch in my cheeks would set fire to the rest of me, because I an idea why. Wow. Oh wow.

Okay. I'll deal with Benjamin. You're safe, okay? Nothing's gonna happen." His mouth pulled tight against itself. And now I was having some sort of heart attack. Because when he looked at me like that, my chest started to feel like it was turned inside out. "Promise." And that—the promise, the way he said it with utter certainty—was enough to make me tear up again.

Why do you eat your own heart? Because, O King, it is bitter, and because it is my heart.

He kissed her, over and over, printing blood-flavored kisses on her cheek, her throat, her jaw, her mouth.

I will do anything for you, just don't go anywhere. Just don't leave. Stand there and smile at me, and I'll do anything you want.

Sympathy is charming, but it does not make up for pain.

The meaning of life is the smile of a mother.

It was so awful and weird. I could see all the things I had loved about him, I could see them, but I didn't love them anymore.

That reverberation for me is what is most important about literature

Tears are not endless.

He kissed where I was touching, just below my collarbone, in that place where all my feelings got caught. I believed she'd sent him to me as a gift to help me through.

Is it always that way with men, that first burst of love or sex the thing that binds you? Do you always have to harken back to those first weeks when just the way he walked across a room made you want to take off all your clothes?

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom. Maybe it was just spring. Maybe that's all it was.

I thought about words and how, if you put a few of them in the right order, a three-minute story about a girl and her dog can get people to forget all the ways you've disappointed them.

I has a last look at the sea, which was rumpled and agitated, a thick muscle that would hold on tight to everything it swallowed.

I held her as she wept. I stroked her hair, loose and slightly matted. 'Stay here with me. Or let me come with you.' She pulled me down to kiss her. Warm. Briny. 'I love you,' she said, her lips still against mine. But it meant no.

It's good to see art, to remember what a natural human impulse it has always been.

When my mother died, I sort of felt her inside me sometimes,' I say. 'Like I'd swallowed her.' He laughs. 'Swallowed her.' 'I still have moments when I feel that, when it feels like she's inside me, and there's no difference between us or that the difference doesn't matter.

The impulse to touch her and all the life in her was something I had to check regularly.

I can tell he lost someone close somehow. You can feel that in people, an openness, or maybe it's an opening that you're talking into. With other people, people who haven't been through something like that, you feel the solid wall.

And I kiss him. A long uninterrupted kiss that goes straight through my body, ringing it in the very best way.

Victor asks us to find the moments of heat in the writing we have done, has us circle and isolate those words, and with them we write a poem. We read them out loud. There's one about an ashtray, a sequined dress, flour on a kitchen floor. Victor says something about each one. The feeling in the room is beautiful, wide open.

Did love, she wondered, include this desperate yearning to present the world as truly beautiful to someone else?

He listens. He breathes into the phone. I can tell he lost someone close somehow. You can feel that in people, an openness, or maybe it's an opening that you're talking into. With other people, people who haven't been through something like that, you feel the solid wall. Your words go scattershot off of it.