Quotes About Emotion

it made her angry, and since she could do nothing with her anger, it made her sad.

I act strictly according to the way I feel, my intuition. Miss Melba Obrenski

He pulled her against his chest, letting her feel his heart thunder its rhythm. Kissing her hair he whispered, the desperation raw, You are no dream...but flesh and blood. Tell me you are real...oh, please...be real. Aye, I am real.

To ache so deeply now for Nana gave the older woman's life profound meaning. It was a privilege to mourn such a loss because it meant you had loved and been loved.

What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve . . . —Unknown

I wanted to say a lot but wasn't sure where to start; people don't want to hear about how your heart has melted into the dirt under your house.

A man doesn't recognize his own wife. Because she's happy.

Martha's hands were steady. Her mind was focused. Her heart was starting to race. In an atmosphere charged with great expectations and high emotion, yet underlined with a respectful dose of healthy concern, her spirit trembled with anticipation. With years of experience to guide her, she knew that soon—very, very soon—she would bear witness to life's greatest

Call us what you will: we are made such by love.

What stirs lyrical poets to their finest flights is neither the delight of the senses nor the fruitful contentment of the settled couple; not the satisfaction of love, but its passion. And passion means suffering.

So soon as passion goes beyond instinct and becomes truly itself, it tends to self self-description, either in order to justify or intensify its being, or else simply in order to keep going.

You've never felt good. Your suffering protects you. Pain is the ransom you have gladly paid not to be free.

The women were blank, shining areas with photographs of sad girls floating in them.

Is that why I went wild over her? Because once I saw her truly? Is devotion as simple as that?

It was there. It was. The long walk down the hall. The door opening. The beautiful stranger. The torn moon mended. Our fingers touching away the tears. It was there.

My father is dead! As soon as he'd said it, Fiskadoro saw he'd made it true again--again for the first time. Did it just go around and around? He began to see that his sorrow wasn't simple. It wasn't one thing, but a thousand things carrying him away to the Ocean: the work of a person's life was to drink it.

First I put my lips to her upper lip, then to the bottom of her pout, and then I kissed her fully, my mouth on her open mouth, and we met inside.

I didn't want to get to know her very well, and didn't want to be bridging any silences with our eyes.

It wasn't my life she was after, it was more. She wanted to eat my heart, and be lost in the desert with what she'd done, she wanted to fall on her knees and give birth from it, she wanted to hurt me as only a child can be hurt by its mother.

while the jukebox sang softly to itself.

To English it was amazing how a song will take a whole confused epoch in your life, and fashion it into something sharp and elegant with which to pierce your neck.

The jolt of fear had burned all the red out of my blood.

The feeling that he was afraid of me was invigorating.

Because we all believed we were tragic, and we drank. We had that helpless, destined feeling.