Quotes About Emotion

She looked into Matt's eyes. "Even so, I love you." Matt smiled at her and winked. "I know.

I'm afraid that when we hit the ground, this will be over. We'll land and this feeling between us will vanish. That you won;t feel it any longer. I can't stand that thought.

How you find love means nothing. It's what you do with it when you see it that does. And

I want to know what it feels like to fall so deeply in love that I can never come out of it … I want to be so engulfed and so intrinsically tied to another person … I want that with you.

It doesn't matter that we live together, that I'm with him every single day. I have the same strong reaction, the same unyielding surge of love that rips through me, every time I see him.

You need songs that make you feel. Some make you strong, some make you weak. Some build determination, some tear you apart. But you need all of those.

My heart is a stupid asshole.

She read the two words that were so simple and so yet moving. Miss you.

Sometimes when they were talking online, she got this strange vibe. As if she could actually sense him, that she knew what it was like to be with him in person.

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

This is all sorts of fucked up." "I know, baby. I know. But the best kind of fucked up.

I want him to feel, even in sleep, that I am crazy about him. That I am unfailingly devoted to him.

Martin was swept up in the sound—no longer blood and bone, frozen feet and hungry belly, but an empty vessel filling with notes, carried by something older and bigger and more permanent than himself.

Hatred is hurt masquerading-it is an energy used to fool someone into thinking they are frightening when in truth they are frightened.

Audiences don't care if you sing correctly. They care if they feel something. If they don't, they forget you. Emotional honesty creates loyalty and a lifelong connection above all else.

Well in case you failed to notice, In case you failed to see, This is my heart bleeding before you, This is me down on my knees These foolish games are tearing me apart Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart You're breaking my heart

She watched his lips forming the words, at the same time she heard them under her skin, under her winter coat, so near and full of warmth that she felt herself go hot.

Is that what you think of when you think of me? Gogol asks him. Do I remind you of that night? Not at all, his father says eventually, one hand going to his ribs, a habitual gesture that has baffled Gogol until now. You remind me of everything that followed.

She learned that an act intended to express love could have nothing to do with it. That her heart and her body were different things.

As strange as it seemed, I knew in my heart that one day her death would affect me, and stranger still, that mine would affect her.

He tries to peel the image from the sticky yellow backing, to show her the next time he sees her, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to detach cleanly from the past.

In the days that follow, he begins to remember things about Moushumi, images that come to him without warning while he is sitting at his desk at work, or during a meeting, or drifting off to sleep, or standing in the mornings under the shower. They are scenes he has carried within him, buried but intact, scenes he has never thought about or had reason to conjure up until now.

He felt the chill of her secrecy, numbing him, like a poison spreading quickly through his veins.

avevo bisogno di una lingua differente: una lingua che fosse un luogo di affetto e di riflessione. —ANTONIO TABUCCHI