Quotes About Emotion

Poetry isn't an activity, it's a way life is lived.

I felt, by turns, numb, hot with a monstrous embarrassment, and sick as though I'd eaten splinters of glass and was slowly shredding inside.

Why do people have memories? It would be easier to die - anything to stop remembering.

Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with its many chords. The artist is the hand that, by touching this or that key, sets the soul vibrating automatically.

I danced frightening things. They were frightened of me and therefore thought that I wanted to kill them. I did not want to kill anyone. I loved everyone, but no one loved me, and therefore I became nervous.

I am not crying, but have tears in my heart.

Applause is not opinion. Applause is a feeling of love for the artist.

And yet I feel so sad for some reason.

The first time he saw her she reminded him a distant memory of falling from a height.

More are taken in by love than by cunning.

Even the air between them seemed to be dented, waiting to be straightened again.

That was the same week my physics teacher taught my class the concept of infinity. I cried about it every night for months.

How do you feel?" Ewa asks. "Betrayed." "By who?" she says. "Whom," I say. "Who?" "I feel betrayed by my femininity.

Like no one else... you share that part of my mind that associates itself mostly with ideal things and places... The impression thinking about you gives me is very closely linked with that given me by a lonely hillside or a sunny afternoon... or books that have meant more to me than I can explain... This is grand, but still it isn't enough for this world... The earthly and obvious part of me longs to see and touch you and realise you as tangible.

one wheat-ear of enthusiasm was worth a good many tares of indifference

Every story needs to be worth telling.

There is only Love -- and Stories. All else is but a shadow dream.

What happens next leaves me speechless. "I still don't have a proper love gift for you yet, im amrevu," Aeson says, watching me with intensity. "However, I have this—" He reaches with his right hand to untie the black armband around his left sleeve. The black length of silk comes loose, and he folds it carefully into a square and hands it to me.

But her soft lips were upon his, drinking his living breath, and he was now gasping in divine madness, pressing his mouth over hers like a drowning man, breathing through her. . . . "That

Limit love and you limit life.

La musique avant toute chose

Flow is something the reader experiences, not the writer.

Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart's tears can dry at their own pace.

Some kisses are gentle and simply social; no more than a greeting, a brush on the cheek. Some exist only as a prelude to other activities. But our first kiss had a life and a meaning of its own. I felt that it marked the beginning of something important.