Quotes About Emotion

He stared at me. She liked you, boy. The intensity of his voice and eyes made me blink. Yes, I said. She did it or you, you know. What? Gave up herself for a while there. She loved you that much. What an incredibly lucky kid you were.

Palmer stood there, hanging from her eyes.

Sometimes what I did five minutes ago scared the fuck out of me five minutes later.

She protected herself by making herself believe no-one else could ever really understand her.

There were innumerable selves that he evoked in her.

I stared across the crackling fire at Brenda, the glow lighting up her heart-shaped face. My love for her was carved into my bones.

The air felt like warm soup.

Tears welled in Penelope's eyes, making the blue even darker. Then she reeled back and slapped him hard enough that his cheek stung. That is for what you did to me. Not in the dark, Jeremy. Not as the faceless lover. Not even for today when you made love to me... or perhaps we should call it 'fucking', since there was nothing loving about it, only manipulation. Her voice shook as hard as her hands as she turned on her heel and headed for the door. It's for betraying my friendship.

Her knees began to shake, not because he was beautiful, which he had always been, but because coming into this room with him here waiting for her…it was like coming home.

He wanted her. Now. He wanted her all night. Every night for a week. A month. Maybe even a year. He sank down in a chair beside the fire and rubbed his eyes. "I'm in trouble," he muttered. And never had he believed a statement more.

This was her last chance to protect herself, her heart. She didn't take it. With a shiver, she released all the tension in her body and gave herself over to him. Her body. Her soul. And her love. Her love for him washed over her just as her orgasm did, sweeping her through a pleasure so powerful that it overwhelmed and threatened to destroy her. And she didn't care. She would rather burn in the fire of her love than to drown without him.

Some memories remain close; you can shut your eyes and find yourself back in them. These are first-person memories—I memories. But there are second-person memories, too, distant you memories, and these are trickier: you watch yourself in disbelief.

And if a moment exists only in one's perception anyway, then perhaps the rush of feeling he has now is THE MOMENT, and not merely its shadow.

And Pasquale forced himself to look away from her then. It was like prying a magnet off steel, but he did it: he turned forward in the boat, closed his eyes, still seeing her standing there in his memory. He shook with the strain of not looking back until they rounded the breakwater into the open sea and Pasquale exhaled, his head falling to his chest. You are a strange young man, Tomasso the Communist said.

Stories are people. I'm a story, you're a story . . . your father is a story. Our stories go in every direction, but sometimes, if we're lucky, our stories join into one, and for a while, we're less alone.

Stories are people. I'm a story, you're a story . . . Your father is a story. Our stories go in every direction, but sometimes, if we're lucky, our stories join into one, and for a while, we're less alone.

but in Claire's mind it would always be Holly Golightly who stole her daddy. We belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us.

All art is personal. Otherwise, what's the point?

Love is wild and when it is cut returns again, stronger whether you want it to or not.

Like, you just did not expect to feel this way but you do, and it's what writers for centuries have called "melancholia" but because you don't read books, your language is limited.

You need songs that make you feel. Some make you string, some make you weak. Some build determination, some tear you apart. But you need all of those...Run through the pain.

Good. I think I'm falling for you too. Let's not pull this chute.

Your parents died. Your world fell apart. I nod. He puts his hand on my cheek. You were left drowning I nod again. And you're struggling to breathe I am. It's a constant struggle to stay near the surface I have just enough air to stop me from going totally under, but not enough to thrive. So do it. Breathe. Just Breathe. He turns up the volume and strokes my hair.

You won't fall madly out-of-your-brains in love? Let your world as you know it be blown to bits because you fall heart-crushingly head-over-heels for someone?