Quotes About Emotion

I love you,' Rachael said. 'If I entered a room and found a sofa covered with your hide I'd score very high on the Voigt-Kampff test.

How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just—change. With nothing causing it.

Why does a man cry? he wondered. Not like a woman; not for that. Not for sentiment. A man cries over the loss of something, something alive. A man can cry over a sick animal that he knows won't make it. The death of a child: a man can cry for that. But not because things are sad. A man, he thought, cries not for the future or the past but for the present.

Love is another name for sex.

Ruth said, Love isn't just wanting another person the way you want to own an object you see in a store. That's just desire. You want to have it around, take it home and set it up somewhere in the apartment like a lamp. Love is-she paused, reflecting-like a father saving his children from a burning house, getting them out and dying himself. When you love you cease to live for yourself; you live for another person.

He felt the pressure of her love as she squeezed his fingers, and then there was nothing. Except the pain. But nothing else, no Heather, no hospital, no staff men, no light. And no sound. It was an eternal moment and it absorbed him completely.

This guy—Joe whatever—hasn't even got the right expression on his face; he should have that cold but somehow enthusiastic look, as if he believed in nothing and yet somehow had absolute faith.

Don't you feel it?" he kidded her. "The historicity?

Tears began to surge up into her eyes, and she found herself doubling up her fists, with the thumbs inside, as she had done as a child; she felt her jaw wobble, and when she spoke her voice could hardly be heard.

She took his hand, squeezed it, held it, and then, all at once, she let it drop. But the actual touch of her lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away.

she had it—his soul—and she was turning it over and over on her tongue. Goddam her!

I'll try a slice of peach, she said, and gingerly picked out a slippery pink-orange furry slice with her long fingers. And then, as she ate the slice of peach, she began to cry.

it was an odd sensation, knowing intellectually that they were machines but emotionally reacting anyhow.

A man driven by rage may stumble, in his passion, onto truth.

What about -- not sex -- but love?' 'Love is another name for sex.' 'Like love of country,' Rick said. 'Love of music.

Mercer doesn't have to do anything alien to him. He suffers but at least he isn't required to violate his own identity.

But she looked—smaller. As if something in her had dwindled away, as if she had dried up. It was almost—age. Yet not quite. Could their separation have done this much damage? He doubted it. His wife, since he had seen her last, had become frail, and he did not like this; despite his animosity he felt concern.

I almost passed the IQ test," he said in a low, shaky voice.

Ve sonunda üzüntünün program?n? buldum." Karanl?k ve küstah bir havaya bürünen yüzü sanki büyük bir zafer kazanm??ças?na tatminkârd?. "Ve her ay iki kez olmak üzere program?ma bu numaray? da katt?m. Bence ayda iki kez olan biten her ÅŸeye üzülmek için yeterli bir süre, sence de öyle deÄŸil mi?

the basis of life is not a greed to exist, not a desire of any kind. It's fear, the fear which I saw here. And not even fear; much worse. Absolute dread. Paralyzing dread so great as to produce apathy.

Because when the death-dealing powers of ice and cold reach your loins, your breasts and hips and buttocks as well as your heart—it was already deep in her heart, surely—then there will be no more woman. And you won't survive that. No matter what I or any man chooses to do.

Lo más que puedo pensar en hacer, lo más que puedo hacer en este momento, sería darte un beso. Tal vez en la mejilla, si te parece bien.

The jukebox played some hillbilly tune; steel guitar and emotion-choked moaning...

Tripping across a country pasture with Junie Black... spreading out a blanket on the hot, dry hillside, among the smells of grass and afternoon sun. No, not there. Is that gone, too? Hollow outward form instead of substance; the sun not actually shining, the day not actually warm at all but cold, gray and quietly raining.