Quotes About Emotion

To be wronged is nothing, unless you continue to remember it.

The eyes showed the soul and they were always hardest to mask.

Why do you hurt me? What more do you want?" she asked, tears shining in her eyes. "Power over you, little one," he said, smiling. "What does any man want but that? It is something in the blood of every one of us. We would all be a tyrant if we could.

The eyes show the soul and they are the hardest to conceal.

He loved but he did not know how to be loved.

The heart doesn't ask permission. It is singularly unconcerned with the qualifications of those it chooses to love. It mocks the intellect, it subjugates reason, and it holds hostage the will to survive.

Did you think I wouldn't know you? That I don't carry the imprint of you burned into my skin?" he demanded in a low, furious voice.

Passion is tragedy-in-waiting

Robin had never been in love before, which is precisely how he recognized the sensation with such absolute certainty.

Este tipo de atracciones son tan poderosas como las incontrolables corrientes marinas

Oh, Rob, ye're alive!" Elspeth put both arms around his neck and hugged him close. "I was afeard ye were gone, but ye're alive!" "Aye, lass," he said with a sinful grin. "Completely alive." She was suddenly aware of the hardness of his groin against her belly and pulled back away from him.

I don't want you think that we ain't a family 'cause we ain't all in one place....

Man watches his history on the screen with apathy and an occasional passing flicker of horror or indignation.

My veins are afire with music, her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; I shall dream to her secret heart tonight.

My heart has become as hard as a city street, the horses trample upon it, it sings like iron, all day long and all night long they beat, they ring like the hooves of time.

I love you, what star do you live on?

Music I heard with you was more than music. And bread I broke with you was more than bread.

Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk, Her mouth as sweet as red-rose-musk; And when she dances his young heart swells With flutes and viols and silver bells; His brain is dizzy, his senses swim, When she slants her ragtime eyes at him... Moonlight shadows, he bids her see, Move no more silently than she. It was this way, he says, she came, Into his cold heart, bearing flame. And now that his heart is all on fire Will she refuse his heart's desire??...

Is it a comb, a fan, a torn dress, a curtain, a bed, an empty rice-bin? It hardly seems to matter. The Chinese poet makes a heart-breaking poetry out of these quite as naturally as Keats did out of the song of a nightingale heard in a spring garden. It is rarely dithyrambic, rarely high-pitched: part of its charm is its tranquility, its self-control. And the humblest reads it with as much emotion as the most learned.

So, talking with my first wife, At the dark end of evening, when she leaned And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,-- Calling to mind remote and small successions Of countless other evenings ending so,-- I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead

Dad, wherever you are, you are gone but you will never be forgotten.

Will other women possess you?" she asked breathlessly. He turned his cheek and rested it against hers as he started moving slowly inside her. "I have never been possessed . . . until now," he said in a deep voice. "You have entered my blood, and nothing I can do will wipe your memory away.

Happiness is a fleeting thing, little mistress. You cannot hold it in your hand, you cannot smell it or taste it—you can only take it when it comes along.

She touched something deep inside him, and he wanted nothing more than to stand between her and any trouble that might come her way.